


Your Name In Darkness

by While_we_breathe_we_shall_defend



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Instincts, BAMF Harvey Bullock, BAMF Jim Gordon, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark elements, Detective Noir, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, Everyone needs a drink, Free Will, Gen, Heavy Angst, Heroic Rescues, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Identity Issues, M/M, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Not Beta Read, Other, Plot, Poor Life Choices, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Season/Series 02, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, What Have I Done, You Have Been Warned, lots of cuteness, or a hug, why not have both?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-10-08 13:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17387015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/While_we_breathe_we_shall_defend/pseuds/While_we_breathe_we_shall_defend
Summary: Killing Major Galavan was a mistake. It crossed a line Detective James Gordon never wanted to cross again. At this dark point in his life, Jim thought he had seen it all, done it all, become all he could become, but he was wrong. When Jim suddenly disappears, there aren't many friendly people left that a worried Harvey Bullock can turn to for help. Only time will tell whether Jim is still quite himself when he is rescued at last. While Jim struggles to unravel the mysteries surrounding his abduction and starts showing some odd behavior, all Harvey wants to do is take care of the Boy Scout before he chooses a path that, this time, there might be no turning back from...





	1. A Worse Day Than Usual

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!  
> So, at long last, after spending years as an anonymous reader, I have convinced myself to start an account. I'm really exited - and a bit angsty - "bloody hell", I think Alfred Pennyworth would say! ;-) This is my first fanfic, so please be kind. I've been working on it since season 2/3, so... yeah, I think we can call it a while. I'm going to try and update quite often, but it may be a bit irregular at times. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are my life's blood and deeply appreciated. Hope you enjoy :-).

Another dark, vaguely threatening morning, although the roiling clouds over the city made it almost impossible to tell what time of day it really was.

At an ungodly hour, Jim Gordon forced his body to get up from the uncomfortable bed he had managed to drag himself to the previous night. His head swam from the mixture of hard alcohol and pain killers still circling in his blood stream. This wasn’t such an uncommon occurrence anymore, nor a sign of things getting off to a bad start.

The detective knew why he did it, knew he couldn’t hold it together any other way. The city was killing him slowly, like a toxin. He may as well swallow toxins to stand it.

Jim sighed as he buttoned up his discarded shirt from the night before. It was presentable enough. In any case, he’d forgotten to put on the washing machine in time, so he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. His apartment was a shambles. Wordlessly, Jim strapped on his gun holster, secured his badge and left for work, shrugging into his coat at the door tiredly. All in all, it was a fairly normal morning, or so it seemed.  

He might have reconsidered that outlook when, on the way to work, he was suddenly confronted with a man pulling a gun and attempting to rob the whole car of the subway. It wasn’t even 7 o’clock in the morning. Jim cursed inwardly at this bout of bad luck. His head throbbed, but the world expected him to handle the situation anyway. So, he handled it. He had to freaking handle it, didn’t he?

Jim watched the fiasco unfold for a moment, sitting near the end of the train car, blue eyes bright. He took in the old woman struggling to take off her gold watch while keeping her ridiculous lap dog from jumping at the guy. He studied the way business men and women around him were trembling and shrieking as the man waved the gun around, throwing out outrageous threats. Jim didn’t feel a thing, just the slow calculated beating of his heart.

He was sick of this. Not of the job per se. But it put him on edge, the sheer capacity of the city to spit in the face of every good person on a near constant basis. He was sick of the very thing happening in front of him. In the last few weeks Jim had noticed a growing part deep inside becoming so enraged, he would almost be willing to cross _that_ _line_ once more. But he had sworn to himself not to cross it again. Still, that simmering part beckoned to shoot the guy in the head, right between the eyes. At least that way he would be sure the guy wouldn’t come back later to haunt him. The option seemed less messy. It would be so easy, too. He knew he could take him.  

In situations like these, Jim asked himself if it would be better or worse if he didn’t still have a conscience. Although that thing he called a conscience seemed gritty enough nowadays, somewhere in the middle of a gray zone, lost in a sea of crime.

He knew full well that Barnes wasn’t wrong, that there were good reasons why the justice system worked with such things as rules and regulations. It was still very clear in his mind, the moment when the Police Captain had said it was the only thing that kept them from being animals. Later however, after everything, that hadn’t mattered. His stuttering spark of hope for justice had been quenched. In that moment he had pulled the trigger, allowing himself to take justice into his own hands. It had been a mistake. The enormity of what he had become still hung over his soul, a dark moon in a starless sky.

Jim stood up then, subtly shifting to stand on the balls of his feet, an eerie battle calm settling over him. From a long way away, he heard himself speak, saw the man with the gun turn to him instantly, angrily, hazel eyes narrowing. 

“GCPD. Sir, I want you to calm down. We can resolve this without bloodshed,” Jim said, holding one hand up in a placating gesture as he moved forward, putting his body between the man and some of the passengers.

The man looked at him. Then he laughed, a touch crazily, pulling his thin lips into a sneer.

“Oh, you’ve _gotta_ be kidding me. A _policeman_. What are the chances, huh?”

Jim didn’t rise to the bait and took a careful step closer. It was hot in the train car. He felt the first beads of sweat slip down his lower back. He had this. Everything was under control. Jim just needed to keep his face impassive, to not let the dangerous part inside him spill out.

“Sir. It’s alright. Look at me. What do you need?”

He wouldn’t cross the line, not again. He was past that. Jim wanted to be a better man again, like before all this madness had started.

So, being as non-threatening as possible, Jim tried to talk sense to the armed thief. Standard procedure. Keep the threat as low as possible. He tried to keep him talking, while getting close enough to overwhelm him, or at least to keep him busy and prevent him from doing more stupid things.

The man sneered and shot the detective at point blank range from a distance of less than six feet.

Jim had put on the tight-fitting, bulletproof vest under his blue dress shirt before going out. When the assailant suddenly pulled the trigger, Jim felt a short burst of gratitude he hadn’t forgotten the damn thing for once.

Nevertheless, being shot hurt. It hurt _a_ _lot_.

The sound of the revolver in the enclosed space of the moving train was incredibly loud. Everyone shrieked in horror.

The impact made him go rigid with shock, the vest pushing into his ribcage as its structure deflected the pressure of the bullet across the right side of his chest, a concentric circle of pain. For a second, his lungs couldn’t pull air properly. Jim staggered, gripping the wall of the train car with a grunt as searing agony bloomed outwards from his chest.

Shooting him didn’t have the desired effect, but Jim let the man think whatever he wanted. Pointedly playing up his own wheezing and using the searing pain to his advantage, Jim pretended to lose his balance further, half slumping against the wall and doubling over so that the guy couldn’t see there weren’t any bloodstains seeping through his shirt, suit jacket and overcoat. The shooter surveyed him coldly and laughed, drunk on unexpected victory.

“Pig. Hope that taught you a lesson, yessir, a fucking lesson!” He raised his gun once more.

“So, as I was _saying_ \- , “

The second Jim felt the attention of the assailant shifting away from him, he made his move. The other’s eyes widened comically as Jim charged him, knocking the gun out of his hand with a sharp movement. Jim followed up with a resounding right hook straight under the chin, sending the guy reeling. Grabbing hold of him roughly, Jim managed to cuff the would-be-thief to one of the seats. The commuters continued shrieking unnecessarily as Jim allowed himself a few seconds to get his breathing back under control and prevent his hands from shaking any worse.

Shit, he had been slow. It was the painkillers, he was sure of it.

“It’s under control! Please, ladies, gentlemen, everyone. It’s over. No reason to panic,” Jim called out.

He sounded so calm, so in control, so _professional_. It was laughable. What he might have liked to say was more along the lines of: _Shut up, you spoiled brats, all of you!_

Instead, he forced himself to smile politely, not grimace, as some of the people gave a few tentative claps, like they had been to an avant-garde play and didn’t know how to react just yet. As if he hadn’t just saved their lives and their gold watches. The commuters appeared to be almost afraid of him, some shying back from his gaze.    

Jim felt so very tired. And he hadn’t even made it to work yet.

What the fuck was wrong with his city.

After the situation had been resolved, backup on site and the train car emptied of witnesses and bystanders, the detective found himself standing on the platform. A young sergeant looked away with a slight frown as Jim twisted the arm of the assailant a little too hard, unable to let him get off so easily. The guy was pleading for him to stop, to not break his arm when he finally allowed the sergeant to lead him away.

The other officer, an older man, grunted nonchalantly as his younger colleague marched away and looked at Jim.

“Did he shoot you?” he asked in an almost bored tone as he chewed his bubblegum.

Jim nodded.

“Well, damn,” The officer drawled. “Not a great start, huh, Detective Gordon?”

“No.” Jim said shortly, feeling his dislike for this particular colleague grow. 

Each breath was getting a little more painful, and he knew the bruising under the vest must be extensive.

“Want to get that looked at?” the officer asked and smiled faintly when Jim sighed in an exasperated tone.

“No, thanks. I’m heading to the precinct anyway. I can get it looked at there. No need to drop me someplace.”

The man just looked at him expressionlessly. “As you say, Detective,” he said, popping a bubble. “If you could just sign this, then.”

Jim signed the report he had already dictated to the younger officer. He ignored the pain in his chest and the still throbbing headache as best he could. “Thanks for wrapping up here. Appreciate it,” he said, giving a brief nod. Grim expression not showing a glimpse of the glaring pain he felt, Jim said goodbye and turned away.

Fine, so he needed a few more painkillers today. Not a big deal. What annoyed him most was that he was late for work, now. Not to forget he already had such a backlog of paperwork to do, probably already doubling due to the incident. No way would it be over with that report. He just knew it.

But Jim never arrived at the precinct that day.

Somewhere between declining the offer of a lift and taking the next subway out, now only two stations away from work, James Gordon disappeared entirely.

The moment he realized he was being followed in the tunnel of the subway station he knew it wasn’t a normal morning, even for the especially low standards Gotham had set, but the _weird_ type of a morning. The weird ones he hated most, if he was honest.

Eyes narrowing slightly, Jim continued walking as he weighed his options.

There were two men behind him, their long flowing robes of faded blue probably hiding weapons. With that kind of outfit, they couldn’t go unnoticed for long, even in Gotham, but they really didn’t seem to give a damn. Their eyes tracked his every movement as Jim continued to pretend he hadn’t noticed them. Briefly letting his eyes drop down and to the side, he watched their reflections catch in the glass casings of advertisements lining the crowded corridor as he strode forward briskly. Jim hoped to lose them in the crowd without betraying himself by running. If he had been at full strength, perhaps he could have outpaced them or outwitted them. Maybe he could have openly, stupidly, confronted them. Right now, though, his whole right side was a throbbing mess of pain and lights that didn’t belong there flickered along the edges of his vision.

He stayed subtly focused on the men behind him, as focused as he could, considering the sharp pain it caused him to breathe and the way his poor head was still throbbing. Jim gritted his teeth and weaved through the masses, noticing his hand couldn’t even seem to find his holster or his gun.

That was bad.

At least he was nearing the stairs to ground level, only a short distance from the precinct. Whatever this was set out to be, Jim knew he could make it out into the open in time and take care of the situation there. They wouldn’t follow him beyond his own doorstep, surely.

He was too focused what was going on behind him, in the end.

The weary detective didn’t notice the third man, dressed completely casually, until it was too late – until, at the brink of the stairs, his arms were suddenly being twisted behind his back painfully. Jim felt the prick of a syringe at the side of his neck.

He struggled, opening his mouth to call for help, feeling the first spark of panic when nothing came out, only a strangled gasp. The stuff was working quickly. He stumbled forward, trying to free his arms to turn around and finally pull his weapon, but not managing it. No one stopped or even looked at him in the crowd of stressed workers when he sagged against the third man, groaning faintly as the world started tilting and reeling beyond his control. One harried-looking commuter gave him a glare as he passed by, muttering something about drunks that should take it elsewhere. No one saw what was going on. Jim’s vision started turning black. His tongue was unable to move, a useless weight.

He felt an arm go around his waist and someone lean in close.

“You’re perfect,” the voice said, and then something else. Jim couldn’t make sense of it, but something in the tone made the hairs rise up on the back of his neck.

Then his legs gave way. He felt the dirty cool tiles of the flooring against his cheek as his consciousness flickered, dissolving, finally free-falling into a dark void.

This was an especially bad morning, even for Gotham standards.   


	2. Unfortunate Misunderstandings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> It's time to introduce some... original characters! With heavy plot, it seems kind of unavoidable, argh. But wait! Harvey will appear in chapter three! Please bear with me here. And maybe, just maybe, you'll enjoy it more than you thought! I had a bit of fun with this, anyway.

_* The evening prior*_

Beneath the rapidly sinking sun, the shadows stretched and began to merge into one another, a growing pack of hungry beasts waiting to be fed the night. Evening gloom trailing her, a woman appeared, walking down an empty side street all alone.

At the first glance, she seemed quite petite and easy prey to overwhelm. Yet, she carried herself with a quiet, almost hostile self-assurance that would have dissuaded many had they taken a closer look. The coat tails of her heavy woolen outer garment billowed as she walked, revealing a long blue skirt und a white business shirt. Her clothing seemed non-descript, even her shoes were boring, sensible and flat, not making a sound on the tarmac. Her dark, straight hair was cut in a savagely asymmetrical bob that made the paleness of her skin stand out in stark relief. A fringe kept the keen intelligence in her eyes hidden.

The woman wasn’t pretty, but neither was she ugly. She was a perfect tool, one of the sharpest in the box, in fact.

Before, the woman had been watching the street for some time from a darkened entranceway. Satisfied she hadn’t been followed, she stepped up to the barely-lit payphone huddled against a brick wall. Checking it was working and completely ignoring the smell of human piss, she carefully threw in a handful of silver coins with gloved fingers and dialed a long number she clearly had to know off by heart.

There was a pause and a faint click as a line was established.

Someone had picked up on the other end, waiting.

There was no greeting, only a faintly ominous silence.

“ _Ego_ _credo_ ,” the woman whispered into the grimy receiver.

Another faint click was heard.

The phone didn’t disconnect. The woman held the line.

“Montorio Shipping Company. How may I help you?” a woman’s voice said, a little too cheery for comfort.

“Hello. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Mulligan. Tomorrow’s delivery of sensitive goods is going to be cancelled. He is experiencing some unprecedented problems,” the dark-haired woman reported without inflection.

“Oh. What kind of problems is he experiencing?”

“His employees, the ones responsible for handling the goods directly, are asking for more securities before they continue. As you know, the goods are too sensitive to be trusted to amateurs... which makes the matter… delicate.”

“We’re aware of the delicacy. Nevertheless, the company would like to ensure that the time frame for the delivery can still be met. Did Mr. Mulligan specify when he thinks these… issues will be overcome?”

The dark-haired woman gave a small, frustrated sigh.

“He only said was that for the foreseeable future, he needs to call off _all_ further deliveries, not just tomorrow’s."

" _Excuse me?"_

"Mulligan feels compelled to take this chance to renegotiate terms for his employees… and for himself, as well.”

The following silence was threatening.  

“ _Ah_. We certainly didn’t expect one of our partners to behave like this. Management will not be pleased,” the secretary finally said, friendly tone fading fast.

“Mr. Mulligan means no disrespect. However, he knows he offers unique and usually infallible services, and would like to speak of terms that mirror the worth of that. He believes that management should give him a chance to explain his side of the story.”

The woman at the other end of the line laughed quietly. Her laughter sounded like the tinkling of glass shards.

“I see. _No disrespect,_ indeed. Please hold. I need to relay this to management.”

“I’ll wait,” the dark-haired woman said calmly, glancing down the street. She was still alone.

Click.

As she waited, the woman idly threw more small change into the payphone.

“Hello,” a man’s voice intoned from the other end, deep and firm.

“Hello.”

“Thank you for the update. Needless to say, we are a little surprised about this.  The terms of our partnership are clearly defined and mutually beneficial. We don’t quite understand Mr. Mulligan’s sudden… change of heart.”

“Mr. Mulligan says he has no choice...,”

“Well, that’s wrong. Of course he has a choice, and he just made a bad one!” the man said. “What about tomorrow’s delivery? Is he capable of showing that much good faith toward our partnership, at least?”

“He says _no can do_ until he has a chance to speak with you. His employees are on strike until further notice. And so is he, by necessity.”

“So he’s implying he’ll hold on to the batch _beyond_ the date of expiry, is he? That’s unacceptable-!” the man’s voice spluttered.  

“Left unchecked, that seems exactly what he’s going to do. Apparently, Mr. Mulligan thinks he’s up for a game of hardball,” the dark-haired woman said, shifting from one foot to the other as she tried to keep warm. By now, night had fallen.

The man on the phone blew out a breath and _tsk_ -ed.

“Unwise. _Very_ unwise.”

“I agree.”

“I don’t approve of Mr. Mulligan’s methods of trying to do business. We don’t _do_ threats.”

“He may need to hear this from management _directly_.” 

“Oh, he will. An appointment with him will be scheduled for tomorrow.” 

The man paused. “Meanwhile, do you have any thoughts on this situation? We are running out of time. Those are sensitive goods, if Mr. Mulligan won’t handle them the way we agreed upon, he has no right to hold onto them at all.”

“Agreed,” the woman said. “Well, considering the urgency, I’d like to offer my services to resolve this… unfortunate misunderstanding.  Do I have your authorization?”

“Of course, do what you must. Honestly, before it gets any messier, I’d prefer you care of the delivery personally.”

“Very well.”

“It’s your top priority. We don’t want any goods spoiling. That’s unacceptable. You understand?”

 “Yes. You can rely on me.”

“Thank you, Margaret. We value your help, as always.”

“Sir, if I may ask one thing…?” the woman ventured.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Mulligan doesn’t seem to realize the extent of his decision for the company. I would like to help him overcome his… _confusion_ on the matter,” the woman said. Her keen eyes suddenly looked very cold.

“I’m not sure he _can_ overcome it. He seems to have lost all sense of reality. But, if you think it would help to make him more _cooperative_ … well, do as you see fit,” the man finished, almost resigned.

“Thank you. I will tell him you sent your regards and will see him tomorrow to discuss things,” Margaret said.

“Excellent. And remember, we’re expecting you at the main office in the afternoon, yes?”

 “Of course. I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to overseeing the current bundle.”

“Oh _yes_. I’m sure you are!” the man said with a chuckle.

“I will get in touch soon, sir. Goodbye.”

Margaret hung up without waiting for an answer.

 

Feeding the machine her last small change, she dialed a different number. This time, a younger man’s voice was heard, tense and seemingly struggling with his composure.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Mulligan,” Margaret said calmly, her face at odds with the friendliness in her voice.

“ _Ah_. That was quick!” Mulligan exclaimed.

“Yes, well. We would like to resolve this matter quickly. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, yes, of course! I hope he is willing to see me, then?”

“Indeed. He will meet up with you tomorrow. You can discuss everything in person. His secretary will call you ahead.”

“That’s good.” Mr. Mulligan hesitated. “And…errm…was he… pissed?”

“I wouldn’t say that. He was a bit surprised, though. Nevertheless, he still appreciates the partnership with you and is willing to go to some lengths to sustain it.”

“He is, huh? Well, sounds good. I’m glad to hear he is taking this… so professionally.” Mulligan betrayed his utter nervousness when he continued, “I know how this must look, but there isn’t another way of getting him to listen! Times have changed where we’re at, you know? Nowadays, employees want all kinds of rights no one used to insist upon, _insurances_ and _safety gloves_ and _health care_ – I mean, the things you could _catch_ here - ,”

“Excuse me. You know the Boss is just a call away,” Margaret stated calmly, interrupting the other’s gushing. “It wasn’t necessary to resolve to the methods you chose.”

“Well, my apologies, but that’s not quite how _I_ see the whole th –, “

“Mr. Mulligan,” Margaret interrupted again, this time with an edge to her voice. “ _Surely_ it would be better to discuss that further with the Boss?”

“Yeah… right. Sure.”

“But, about those details you mentioned...,”

“Y-yeah?”

 “If you’re still in the office, I’d like to take a look at the exact demands of your personnel. Know what kind of problems they’re encountering dealing with the deliveries, so you can make a good case to the Boss tomorrow. It wouldn’t be a problem to come around now, right?” Margaret said. She smiled at the receiver in her gloved hand as she waited for an answer, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“You – you want to come around _now_?” Mulligan sounded unsure.

“If we could address a few issues right away, I’m sure it would help all sides. I’m just trying to help, Mr. Mulligan. We all want to leave this unfortunate business behind us. No one _really_ wants any goods spoiling because of a simple _misunderstanding_ , surely?”

“Well, uh… what if I say I’m just about to head home and I’d prefer to discuss it all tomorrow with the Boss?”

“I would advise _not_ to say that to me, Mr. Mulligan.”

Mulligan didn’t say anything for a moment.

“So, can we count on you?” Margaret said, flexing her fingers idly. “May I assist before your meeting tomorrow?”

“Yeah... okay,” the man said at last, swallowing thickly.

“Good choice. I’ll be at the back entrance in thirty minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll be there…”

“See you soon, Mr. Mulligan.”

“Yeah… see you. “

Margaret hung up.

Ten minutes later, a man hurriedly exited the back entrance of a huge brick building.  There was a large metal sign towering over it. In bold gothic lettering the sign read: “Gotham Central Crematorium”.

A large ring with many keys was attached to the man’s belt and jangled loudly as he ran across the deserted lot to a solitary parked car. Along with a plastic card swinging from his dark jacket, he could be identified as some kind of worker. 

It was Mulligan, supervisor at Gotham Crematorium. Flustered and pale-faced as he piled into the car, looking around wildly. He hurriedly started the motor and took off.

The interior of the car was blessedly dark, the lightlessness of the broken dashboard effectively hiding the state of distress Mulligan was in. He was thankful for that. It made him feel safe, anonymous as he pulled onto the city highway and sped home. After several minutes of driving unperturbed, Mulligan’s breathing calmed down a little more.

“Shit! _Shit!_ You stupid ass!” he admonished himself harshly. “You’re overreacting. They’re unhappy with you, of _course_ they are! But they won’t kill you over _this_. You’ve been in the business for years. It’s not as bad as it looks. Get a grip and turn back, then you can still make it in time…!”

But Mulligan didn’t turn back. Instead he continued all the way back home, eyes watching for another car in the review mirror tailing him. Nothing happened. He put the car into park and took a deep breath, closing his eyes to gather himself.

“Okay. Stay calm. Now what the fuck am I going to do about this?” he whispered to himself, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel.

Suddenly, he caught a faint glint out of the corner of his eye and before he could react, something cold, hard and sharp caressed the side of his neck. He whimpered as the sharp blade pierced his skin delicately, drawing only a few drops of blood.  

“Can’t say I’m surprised. You keep making bad choices today, Mr. Mulligan,” Margaret purred into his ear from her position behind the driver’s seat. “Now, why don’t _we_ head back and take care of that delivery _together_?”

 


	3. It isn't hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! In all honesty: I may have gone a little overboard here. It was never planned for this chapter to get so long... but I had to get these ramblings out of my system. My god, over 5000 words here... and on top of that, I've been very tired and that means higher percentage of typos. So sorry. I hope you enjoy anyway!. Promise more action / plot happening in the next chapters. Need to move this along...! :-)

Late by a fashionable margin, Harvey strode into the precinct, carefully switching two paper coffee cups from one calloused hand into the other, as he tried to avoid burning the tips of his fingers.

The bullpen was still gloomy at that time of the morning, only faint beams of natural light falling in through the tall narrow windows. Old lamps hanging on long metal chains from the vaulted ceiling cast weak circles of brightness without really illuminating anything. Harvey’s thick leather jacket made crinkly noises as the undefined stains on his cuffs cracked and warped with his every stride. His comfortable, slightly garish shirt underneath may have needed a wash, but honestly: Life was too short.

Giving a nod to the desk clerk and some other colleagues as he passed them, the seasoned detective looked up under the horizon of his hat, fully expecting to see Jim already at his desk, sternly looming over his paperwork. Seeing the empty twin desks overlooking the quietly bustling bullpen was enough to tell Harvey something was up. And as it was Gotham, it was probably not exactly a _happy_ something.

 _Oh, shit, Jim. What’s going on?_ Harvey thought as he plodded up the short flight of steps. He set down the two steaming cups, carefully placing one on his desk and the other on Jim’s adjourn to it. Leaning his hands on the back of his swivel chair he stared at Jim’s desk. Wisps of steam slowly trailed upward from the cups as he began to frown, a crease appearing between his green-grey eyes.

In silence he looked over the neat stack of case files and the antiquated, dark green lamp on his partner’s desk. A few sharpened pencils were lined up to one side, along with red felt-tipped pens, eagerly awaiting Jim’s next attack on his insurmountable paperwork. The detective took off his hat, shrugged out of his jacket and sat down, wincing as a bad feeling rose up in his gut.

_Do I need to start worrying about you again? Why. Why do you always do this to me?_

Frustrated, Harvey pulled open his top desk drawer with a bit too much force, giving his assortment of meds a glare before popping a few pills. It certainly wasn’t going to make anything better to start retching when he didn’t even have a trustworthy hangover as an excuse.

Judging by his usually impeccable hair style and choice of clothes while on duty, Jim appeared as the neat type to many cops at the precinct, upholding a standard that everyone else - except maybe Captain Barnes himself – had long given up on.

But Harvey, as his partner, knew there was a different side here. The current neatness of his partner’s desk said more than met the eye. In truth, when Jim ever even got _down_ to his paperwork between trying to save the city from the newest threat, the desk became a barely controlled, absolute _mess_ – quite like the man himself when he was off the clock. Then, loose papers and files were spread haphazardly across the entire expanse of hardwood, and writing utensils and empty cups of coffee stood vigil over a battlefield of evidence.

The state of the desk meant that Jim had _either_ been in today and pulled off for a case - but not such an urgent one that he didn’t have time to tidy up his desk before he left – _and surely he would have scrawled Harvey a note, at least?_ \- _or_ , the more likely and worrying alternative - Jim hadn’t once sat at his desk all morning because his attention had been diverted. And Jim’s attention didn’t get diverted without a damn good reason. The Boy Scout would never be late because of a fling with a leggy beauty or a simple honest hangover, _oh_ _no_! No, the reasons were never that mundane with Saint Jim, bless him. Harvey knew for a fact that Jim hated being late. He considered it unprofessional and slovenly, a bad trait he had readily attributed to Harvey early on in their working relationship. Jim Gordon wasn’t late _._

If Jim hadn’t made it to the precinct by now and if he hadn’t called in to say what had gone down in Gotham’s sinister underbelly, then… things could be going to hell in a hand basket already, and his partner could be lying face-down and cold in a stinking gutter, bleeding out.

_Great._

Harvey really didn’t appreciate his own line of thought.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall above the Cap’s office, noting the time. Jim was now late by an hour. Manfully, Harvey resisted the urge to charge straight into Barnes’ office and demand a search-and-rescue like a crazy person.

 _Take it easy_ , he told himself sternly and gave a deep sigh as he leaned back in his chair.

_I’m clearly over-sensitized after Jim’s countless plunges into life-threatening situations. Not to mention too damn paranoid for my own good. Jeez. Okay._

Schooling his face, he fumbled around with the current case files, trying to concentrate on something else for a while. He could be wrong with his deductions, right?

Yeah. He could be _totally_ wrong.  

_Like… okay. Maybe Jim is stuck in traffic…_

_Yeah, right._

_Jesus Christ._

Willing himself to wait another hour before losing it in front of the Captain, not exactly Jim’s biggest fan after the iffy circumstances of Galavan’s murder, Harvey tried to distract himself with some case files, wearily reading up again on the six people that had gone missing in the course of the last two months.

None of the cops previously assigned to the cases had any idea what had happened those people - they had just disappeared from the face of the earth, from one day to the next. There had been no warning, no demands, no evidence of a struggle, no known enemies, in short, no evidence hinting at any kind of foul play involved.

The colleagues hadn’t dug up anything interesting, though maybe they hadn’t really tried. The police had very limited resources, more than anyone wanted to make the public aware of. So, at least objectively speaking, it _did_ make sense not to “waste” too much energy on cases that could easily still prove _never to have been a case at all_.

Missing persons cases were ungrateful detective work. You often didn’t know you were even dealing with a crime case unless you had the luck of some tangible evidence for foul play. At least in homicide, you had a body, or… parts of one. Now _that_ was something tangible, alright.

Wearily, Harvey read through page after page of annoying small print, squinting slightly through his reading glasses and trying very hard not to think about the empty desk across from him.

What they had so far were six adults who had been called in as missing – well, they lived in a free country. It wasn’t immediately considered to be a crime when adults disappeared (Children, of course, being a different case entirely). Hundreds of people, maybe even thousands, went missing throughout the country every year – mostly adolescents who reappeared months later, some more worse for wear than others. Depending on the precinct and the work load, different degrees of diligence were put into finding missing adolescents. And then there were the missing adults, who usually attracted the least attention, both from the media and the police. 

Maybe the six adults had decided to secretly get out of Gotham because of a relationship gone sour, or wanted to finally do that cruise with the busty secretary, or were trying to escape paying their taxes, who could say? Maybe they had wanted to change their miserable lives and decided to go for it, without prior warning and without goodbye to their social circle? Stranger things happened in the world, and _especially_ in the city he worked in.

Normally, missing person’s cases didn’t end up on Jim and Harvey’s respective desks without the presence of a body to clearly mark it as a case for the Homicide Department. However, one of the missing persons was a successful businessman and politician, bringing him a certain amount of fame. With public pressure and media interest rising after other departments hadn’t made any leeway, that case and the other five alongside it had been transferred and dumped upon Homicide’s star detectives two days ago. And as Harvey was paired up with Jim Gordon, he was now in as well, hook line and sinker.

Sighing yet again, Harvey leaned his elbows on the case files, pinning them beneath him, hands wrapped around the almost empty paper cup touching his forehead. Even after reading through the descriptions of the missing persons for the second time, nothing of interest stood out to him.

Granted, all six seemed to come from middle class families, the parents seemed to have had their fair share of success back in the day, the sons and daughters born into stable conditions and a range of good choices for their own educations and later, careers. Four of the six missing people were men, two were women. None of the six had any known connections to each other and lived in different, moderately safe parts of the City. It was possible the six cases weren’t linked at all, but the fact that the first four people had disappeared with barely a week between them seemed a bit odd, the other two, just three days apart from each other, following after a seeming lull of activity for two weeks. The businessman was missing person number six and had disappeared two weeks prior.

Jim had looked over the files yesterday and put forward the idea that maybe they should look at it from another angle – not what there _was_ that linked the cases, but what was currently _absent_ across all cases that could maybe link them up, too. From this angle, _the way_ the persons had all disappeared, without warning and apparently in broad daylight during their work days did make the cases _very_ similar in their _lack_ of detail to Harvey. Maybe Jim had had a point there. But even so, there was little evidence all around… if nothing came up soon, Harvey could see the cases being dropped, politician or no.

After a while, Harvey raised his head again to take a peak around the bullpen. Still no Jim. He sighed, eyes alighting on the lonely-looking paper cup on Jim’s desk. By now, all the steam had been lost and the black liquid long grown cold in the flimsy container.

Harvey’s heart sank further.

Now he _really_ had a bad feeling. It was eleven in the morning and Jim had _never_ been this late before - unless some major shit had been going down.

_I can’t go to the Cap with just this, can I?_

_He’ll think I’m bat-shit crazy if I call in Jim as missing, probably kidnapped without anything but my gut instinct to tell him so. He’ll ask me what proof I have to assume the worst. Barnes is always going on about proof, but what about our instincts?_

_Jimbo, I have a bad feeling about this…_

Harvey let his mind drift again to the topic of Jim, eyes glued to the cold cup of coffee that seemed to be quietly mocking him. 

It had been almost a year since the dark blonde Rookie had been catapulted into Harvey’s grey existence. Harvey, a seasoned detective at the central precinct of the GCPD, had been working Homicide for over 15 years, before that he had worked in Narco for five years. He had seen it all and didn’t _want_ to see any more. No thanks. But he had to, every day. Which was fine, with the right kind of distractions. Alcohol being the most readily available one.

So maybe he had been tired, quietly slinking towards retirement and a fairly decent pension, waiting a decade or so in the future. Not a crime, right?

It wasn’t an unattainable plan for a homicide detective to reach a pensionable age, although you had to _work_ to stay alive in Gotham long enough. You had to _know_ how to save your back and keep your secrets and those of others safe. And you paid the price in the guilt-ridden dreams every so often, and with little favors to unsavory human beings you would prefer to lock up, but couldn’t, because they had power over you. And maybe you also paid with quiet tears that you shed bitterly over a glass of something potent enough to sever connection to your brain for a few merciful hours. Over the years, by trial and error, Harvey Bullock had painfully learnt how to attain a semblance of order in his life and joke of a job.

Then Jim Gordon happened.

Oh well. Who _didn’t_ want to go out in a blaze of glory?

Actually, Harvey Bullock didn’t want to.

Or he hadn’t wanted to, anyway. Not originally.

He had rebelled against the Rookie’s attitude. Guy thought he was a hero, well damn if that wasn’t the best way to get them all dead real quick. When he first met him, Harvey thought he hated Jim Gordon. With a passion.

Harvey had been waiting for the new detective to arrive, still sore about the fact that Captain Essen had thought to pair up Gordon with _him_ , _of all people_. Whatever he had done to earn such a doubtful pleasure as a new partner, he tried to resign himself to the task. He intended to speak plainly to the Rookie at the earliest convenience, say it as it was and _always_ _would_ _be_ in Gotham. To warn him, at least, and maybe save his worthless ass before it got burned right the fuck off. He wouldn’t let his partner make stupid decisions, rush into danger unaided, letting pride and dedication get in the way of careful judgment, like a certain detective many years beforehand. No way. Harvey was the old dog in this equation, now. He had to live up to the part of being responsible for his partner, at least for a few days.

Had Harvey known anything about his new partner at this point, he would have realized sooner he shouldn’t bother, Jim’s personality being _at least_ as stubborn and strong as his own. It was aggravating to accept that kind of strength in a younger man, but there was hardly a point in denying it.

And then, that first day, there Jim had stood in his new suit, even with his brutally short military haircut way too good-looking _not_ to be a real handful. And Harvey had been spot on, because Jim was a handful. That reckless stunt Gordon had pulled off with the druggie in front of everyone’s noses in the bullpen of the precinct had been plain stupid. The way Jim seemed to think he was better than everybody else and his utter ignorance of the finely crafted web of how things _worked_ in the GCPD, how _things had to be done_ , well shit. No chance in hell Harvey was ever going to make it alive to a pensionable age with a partner like that, and didn’t he already know it, even then.

The nerve Gordon had upending _everything_ around him had been frankly staggering to his partner, and soon bullets had been flying in all directions. Jim’s whole person had worried and fretted at Harvey’s wedge of emotional stability. Harvey had tried so hard to stay cynical to compensate for his world starting to tilt in a direction he didn’t like. But it just kept getting worse. After only a few days, Jim had started to make Harvey question himself. Decisions he had sworn not to re-assess started rearing up their ugly mugs at night. Unfairly, after everything he had gone through to survive, his ghosts were coming back to taunt him. He blamed Jim for that.

Harvey remembered complaining bitterly to Captain Essen and demanding a replacement. _A liability to the Force_ , Harvey had shouted at her. _I can’t do this, I won’t! He’s irresponsible. He’s going to get us all killed! He’s going to get_ me _fucking killed, for sure!!!_

 _Hey, shut up, Bullock. Gordon is a game changer_ , Essen had countered. _With him around, I think some things might actually change for the better. And_ you _have to work with him, detective. No more arguments, and that’s an order. If it’s any consolation, I’m sure you’ll grow to like each other._

Captain Essen had seemed almost relieved that Jim had been so _fresh_ , still uncorrupted by the plagues of working in a constant morality shift that was Gotham in a nutshell. Harvey, on the other hand, had felt sick to his stomach what Jim was getting them into. The amount of dirt Jim would uncover would shroud the world in shade. Which is what happened, exactly that, just as Harvey had expected from day one.  

Harvey thought he had hated Jim for everything he was, resented him for the problems he caused. For his sudden flares of temperament beneath the often stoic exterior, for that awful self-righteousness and his upturned prominent nose, for his utter failing to consider risks. For Gordon’s crazy need to act immediately and the heaps of undirected, strangely motivating energy radiating from him to save everyone and everything within his reach. Everyone knew that sort of bravery would never work in Gotham. Harvey had built up his career on the knowledge it _wasn’_ t working in Gotham. Why should that ever change?

He tried to tell Jim this when he said Gotham wasn’t a city for nice guys. And naturally, Jim didn’t understand a word he was saying.

And holy shit wasn’t this just _Saint Jim_ , indeed. 

Harvey remembered Jim looking back at him with those striking dark blue eyes. There had been something hard to define in their jarring depths, not just the overlaying derision when he called Harvey a slovenly, lackadaisical cynic. Had it been a spark of pity? Maybe detached curiosity how Harvey had turned out to be like this? It had been… _something_ , but Harvey didn’t know what, exactly. It had caught his attention, though, made him pause, afterward. Did Jim Gordon have the heart to feel sorry for him? It didn’t matter. He didn’t want anybody’s empathy, and certainly not their pity.

It had taken Harvey a while to comprehend that it wasn’t hate or derision he was feeling towards the Rookie, not even at the start of it all, not truthfully. It had been more complex, a mixture of many twisted, complicated feelings. Anger, fear and shame had been very strong at first, poisoning their first interactions. Harvey hadn’t wanted to look at the reflection of himself in Jim’s eyes. It had been too much, made him surly. Secretly, however, he had been ashamed. But that had changed, something slowly shifting between them as they worked together, case by gritty case, their death scenarios narrowly avoided. Jim hadn’t judged him as Harvey feared he had. Chains around Harvey’s heart started buckling for real when the Commissioner was taken down and he realized that _god_ , maybe there _could_ be another way in Gotham, if he stuck to Jim Gordon. Before he could really put it into words, respect and appreciation towards Jim had given way to admiration.

Somehow, Jim had roped Harvey in to believing things that Harvey had, by choice or necessity, forgotten for over a decade. Within the first month as police partners, Jim had had to realize that the depths of criminal underpinnings and cobwebs in Gotham couldn’t always be overcome with the squeaky-clean methods. Quicker than could be expected, Jim had started listening to him, using Harvey’s knowledge constructively but keeping his ideals of good police work in mind. Jim was sullying himself with darkness because sometimes in Gotham you had to, but at least he was trying his hardest to stay in the light. That was something Harvey hadn’t done, he had walked in twilight for years. Knowing from experience how hard it was to even try and stay in the light, Harvey could admire Jim’s moral stamina.

Meanwhile, Harvey had realized he was starting to feel better about himself. The fiber of his own soul recovered. Thanks to his partner, he regained a measure of moral and social equilibrium after a decade of doubt. Yes, it could be freaking exhausting to try and keep up with Jim’s righteousness, and he still wasn’t quite sure what altruism was supposed to be. But, being around Jim and seeing the small changes he brought about, it made it feel…. _worthwhile_ carrying the badge in the dark city.

Captain Essen had been right. Jim and Harvey had grown to like each other, and each other’s company. They had gone through tons of horrible stuff together that had welded them into a surprisingly high-functioning dynamic duo. The loyalty Harvey showed towards his partner was the most solid ground a beacon like Jim Gordon could hope to cling to, and that had forged a friendship neither of them had seen coming, and that neither of them could now live without.

There was something within Jim that gave Harvey a glimmer of hope for the future, and now that he had seen that glimmer, he felt he needed to save it, keep it alive at any cost. A worrying level of protectiveness towards the Boy Scout had started taking over Harvey’s person, along with a lingering fear Jim was going to get himself killed sooner or later, because the man just couldn’t seem to stop himself from making powerful enemies and terrible life choices.

After his initial resistance, Harvey had learnt to accept Jim’s overachieving work ethic. His pig-headed stubbornness on the other hand, along with his subsequent horrific tendency to charge into the thick of it still caused Harvey mild cardiac arrest on a regular basis. Jim was a born and bred workaholic, just like his father before him, plain and simple. Long overdue R&R seemed way scarier to the Boy Scout than confronting the next lunatic. He couldn’t stay away from his fucking job. It defined him too much for that. This fact frightened Harvey a little.

Maybe Barnes had suspected Jim might go nuts if he didn’t have a task, or he needed Gordon’s spirit just as badly on the force as the poor late Captain Essen had, or possibly Barnes had actually pitied Jim for having been convicted for a murder he ( _officially_ ) didn’t commit. Whatever the underlying reasons had been, Harvey was more than relieved that Jim had been reinstated as a detective and police officer. He only wished Jim would take better care of himself.

After everything Jim had suffered in the past months, he was still managing to pull off the act he was fine. But Harvey knew Jim well enough to know all about how _not_ fine the Boy Scout really was. Obviously, Jim didn’t want his emotional life interfering with his work, but he wasn’t a damn machine. His façade was starting to show deep cracks under the strain. Unfortunately, it seemed that the only person to know how to look for those tells, or really care that they existed, was Harvey himself.

In the flimsy sanctuary of evenings spent together on Harvey’s couch, watching a game on television, or - if Jim got his way - the news channel, Harvey had caught more than glimpses of Jim’s pain.

Sometimes, when Jim had a few Whiskeys too many as he slumped back on Harvey’s couch, he became morose. It was then he confessed things to Harvey he wouldn’t have mentioned in the light of day or even sober. Quietly, with a haunted look in his blue orbs, the skin pulled tight with strain as he struggled with his composure, Jim would allow himself to wallow in self-loathing. Jim would tell his partner about how much he still thought of his dead unborn child and what Lee must have gone through without him being able to protect her, about the tarnish on his conscience of shooting Major Galavan in the head, or about that young inmate who had only tried to help him and had died for it barely outside of prison. This was one of Jim’s problems in Harvey’s opinion: He blamed himself for far too many things, couldn’t let bygones be bygones. It wasn’t healthy what Jim was doing to himself.

Once, drunk and only half-coherent, Jim even admitted to feelings of disgust, admiration and guilt towards Oswald Cobblepot for having taken the fall for Galavan’s murder. That had been something Harvey couldn’t give Jim any words of comfort for – he had a hard enough time understanding the ebb and flow of the alliance between Oswald and Jim in the first place. Personally, Harvey couldn’t stand the little creep and wouldn’t cry a tear if he were dead. He didn’t care that no one could prove it, Oswald had obviously _murdered_ _Fish_. He deserved much, _much_ worse than Arkham Asylum. Cobblepot had been released not too long ago. How could they have released him and declared him _sane_ , that murderous eccentric psychopath?

It was so freaking hard to get through to Jim when he was expertly beating himself up about stuff.

Harvey tried anyway.

 _All of it was some_ _wrong_ , _crazy shit_ , _but it wasn’t_ _in your control. You tried, Jim. You made some mistakes on the way, I’m not denying that, but don’t we all? You did your best in shitty circumstances. I know that_. _You’re a good egg_ , Harvey would say, and Jim would try to believe him and fail miserably.

 _I’m so sorry_ , he would whisper. _I’ve failed at everything. Failed everyone._

Harvey would hum soothingly. _Shush, Jim. You haven’t. It’s okay._

_It’s killing me, Harvey. The guilt._

Falling into silence and so tired in mind, body and soul, Jim would slowly draw up his legs and lean into Harvey’s side. His heavy head would come to rest tucked against Harvey’s broad shoulder. For a moment, there in the half-light of the muted television, Jim Gordon would allow himself to give in to his heartbreak and his otherwise completely repressed desire to feel safe. Jim’s eyes would close and he would curl in on himself protectively, and Harvey would sigh and wrap a warm arm around him, reverent in the knowledge he was the one to see this rare glimpse of vulnerability. Jim would look so small then, close to breaking point and faintly hiccupping with the liquor coursing through his veins, that he’d seem more helpless than anyone would ever imagine possible. Then all Harvey saw were the chinks, deep as the ocean, in the Boy Scout’s battered armor.

In those moments, fragile like glass, Harvey felt an all but overwhelming desire to comfort and soothe Jim, to bundle him up in a blanket like a frightened child and keep him away from all the pain and the bitterness of having to live and work in Gotham. He wanted to sing old songs to him and drive away the cloying terrors plaguing his innermost self. He wanted to leave a candle burning next to Jim’s bed all through the night, and hope for the faint hint of a smile in the morning.

Luckily for their friendship, Harvey never let those dreadful desires take over his actions. There was a line for Jim in this he wasn’t allowed to cross. But sometimes, it made Harvey physically ill to see so much emotional suffering and his only choices in such situations, remain seated or pull away, seemed equally unbearable. Yet, he always stayed.

In the mornings, now nursing a bad hangover on top of it all, Jim’s eyes would flicker with shame and self-loathing yet again. He would pretend to be fine with his half-forgotten lapse of strength, when in truth Harvey knew Jim’s silence on the matter meant nothing was fine and they weren’t ever going to talk about it again if the Boy Scout could help himself. Harvey had watched Jim one time too many as he had smoothed out the wrinkles out of his suit and washed out his mouth over Harvey’s cracked sink in the past weeks, eyes red and tired, and every time it was a tragic picture.

Jim was starting to spiral out of control and Harvey had no idea how he could save him, how he was allowed to save him. There wasn’t so much a choice anymore than the acceptance of his fate: He belonged at Jim’s side, holding him up even as the Boy Scout tried so hard to uphold the world. He was a gravitational force, pulling Harvey into alignment. If his sun guttered out, Harvey would fall with him into the yawning black hole he would leave behind.

Harvey was utterly lost without Jim Gordon.

“Detective Bullock,” a deep voice suddenly intoned, nearly making Harvey jump out of his skin.

He blinked, noticing that while he had given in to his dark musings, Captain Barnes had exited his office and walked right over to his desk. Hiding his embarrassment behind a disinterested huff, the detective straightened in his swivel chair.

“Yeah, Cap?” Harvey said, looking at the Police Captain’s grim face carefully. “What’s going on?”

Barnes’ eyes narrowed faintly as he sized Harvey up. “Bullock. Where’s Gordon gone to?”

“He must be out – I haven’t seen him all morning,” Harvey answered.

“ _Aha_? Well, is he off on any other case? When did you last speak to him?” Barnes’ questioned suspiciously. His face showed a mixture of annoyance and worry.

“I don’t know. Last saw him yesterday at the end of our shift. He didn’t say anything specific to me.” Harvey paused. “Look Cap… it’s obvious you have your doubts about him right now, but believe me, something must be up. Jim… he’s never _late_.”

Barnes pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. His piercing eyes swept over Jim’s neat desk, then back to Harvey.

“I’m worried about him. I just didn’t know how to… exactly… break it to you,” Harvey grimaced under the glare.

“Let’s hope Gordon hasn’t gotten himself into another… situation again,” Barnes said quietly. “But I’m not going to worry about him… yet.”

Barnes looked around the bullpen and sighed. “I don’t have time for Gordon’s bullshit… hey, Alvarez!” he commanded. Detective Alvarez was working at his desk down in the bullpen, looking pissed as he shifted through his paperwork. Hearing Barnes’s voice call him, he straightened, looking up sharply.

“Captain?” he barked out towards the two men on the balcony.

“Get up here. I have a case for you,” Barnes said in a loud, clear voice.

“Fuck…,” Alvarez muttered under his breath as he stood up from his desk and climbed the short flight of stairs to join them. “As if I don’t have _enough_ cases right now…,”

When the tall, Latino detective had arrived next to Harvey’s side, Barnes waved them both into his office. “Good. In here. Now.”

He closed the door and turned to look at the two detectives.

“Bullock and Alvarez, as Gordon is missing the two of _you_ are going to work together on this one. It can’t wait.”

Alvarez shot a brief derisive glance in Harvey’s direction. “Isn’t that great,” he sneered.

Harvey rolled his eyes at Alvarez. “ _Hey_. You can leave that attitude outside.”

“ _Rich_ , coming from you,” Alvarez muttered out of the side of his mouth while staring forward at the waiting Captain who was regarding both of them coolly, leaning against his massive desk with his arms folded.

“Finished bickering yet?”

Harvey smiled brittlely at Barnes. “Do we _have_ to do this, Cap?”

“Well,” Barnes said as he studied them. “Are you two capable of leaving your differences aside to work a case or not? I should hope that Gordon isn’t the only person doing his job at this department?”

Harvey sighed. “…We’ll cope. Tell us about the case.”

Barnes’ eyes flashed at Harvey’s insolence, but he didn’t comment on it.

“An anonymous call came in. There’s a dead body at Gotham Crematorium –”

“Ha!” Harvey burst out. “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”

Alvarez gave a terse sigh and looked at the ceiling, muttering something in Spanish, while Barnes just stared right at Bullock. “May I continue, or do you want to keep joking, detective?”

“…. Please. Sorry.”

“The caller stated that the body in question has no records who brought it in, where it came from, what happened. It’s irregular, no scheduled cremation. The body is also apparently disfigured, hands cut off, and extensive dental work done. Forensics have just arrived on scene, they say identification could be nearly impossible. I want you both down there. Right. Now.”

Harvey shuffled his feet. “Okay, fine – we’re on it.”

Alvarez gave a small nod and frowned. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Barnes said. “Off you go.”

“Could you put out an APB out for Jim, though?” Harvey asked as the other detective already began filing out of the office.

Barnes met Harvey’s worried stare with a faint one of his own.

“He _better_ not be toeing the line again, Bullock.”

“He isn’t. There must be something going on. Please, Cap. I’m sure of it,” Harvey said. “He’s in trouble.”

After a pause, Barnes gave a sharp nod.

“I’ll put out an APB. Now get your ass to the Crematorium!”

Wincing, Harvey tipped his hat to the Police Captain and hurried after Alvarez.

“My car,” he said to Harvey, briefly halting on the stairs. “Not driving in your fucked-up trash can.”

“Fine,” Harvey grunted. “See if I care.”

As they hurried to the car parked in the precinct garage, Harvey had other things on his mind than Alvarez’ big mouth.

_Please, Jim. Just be safe, wherever you are. When this is done, I’m coming after you, buddy._

_Hold on._


	4. The Flames That Consume Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> Thank you all for sticking around :-). And sorry for the short wait this time. Have just gone through a difficult and saddening week in my life, it put everything on hold. Although this chapter was finished when things went down, I didn't have the heart to post it. This chapter contains suffering and pain, be prepared. (Or, to use the very fitting description used in a comment, this is VISCERAL, NON-CON MEDICAL STUFF). It's time to pay Jim a visit.  
> Kudos and comments keep me going, but I'm sure you already know that ;-). Hope you enjoy!

The first thing that Jim noticed when he suddenly snapped back into consciousness was the blackness around him.

Rearing up instinctively from the position on his back, he let out a small grunt when he noticed he was bound down, hands and feet somehow shackled. Milliseconds later, he sensed the annoying pressure of something wrapped tightly over his eyes and around the back of his head.

_Blindfolded._

The brief movement to try and sit up caused a sickening spell of dizziness. He sank back slowly, exhaling shakily as his head hit the thin pillow beneath him.

The detective had no fucking idea where he was. Was he in hospital? But why should they blindfold him and shackle him to the bed? Jim’s thoughts were out of kilter and sluggish with the lingering dizziness only slowly receding from his waking mind, yet he was aware enough to sense this was something else. Had he been sedated, or why was he feeling this groggy? And what was that god-awful _pain_?

Jim blinked rapidly behind the blindfold, as he tried to gather his thoughts and comb through everything he could last remember happening.

 _The train car... right. That idiot. And then? To work, of course. But at the stairs... there had been those people... blue... and then the syringe._ A sudden certainty fell over the detective as he stared up at the blackness of the blindfold.

_Fuck._

Jim briefly screwed his eyes shut in frustration.

This wasn’t a hospital. He had been abducted.

Well, damn. There was no point in being annoyed about what had happened. He needed to concentrate on the present and get the hell out of here.

Wherever “here” was right now. It would be helpful if he could see anything.

Jim breaths came out a little strained as he forced himself to stay calm through the onslaught of pain signals his beaten body was sending him. He needed to ascertain the situation as soon as possible. Slowly, he tried to move in what he assumed was some kind of bed, biting his lip to stifle a faint groan as the sickening dizziness returned with a vengeance.

Jim went through everything he could feel. He was wearing different clothes to before, maybe a hospital gown, but he couldn’t be sure. His legs felt bare under the thin blanket covering his rigid body. His arms rested at his sides, each hands separately cuffed to either side of the bed he was apparently lying in. His palms faced upward almost like he was imitating a posture of crucifixion. His legs were bound, too. Jim’s bare feet felt like they were tied together at the ankles with cables. The material resting against his skin felt too harsh to be a simple rope, and too warm to be metal cuffs. A horrible thought flashed through the detective’s mind: White, surprisingly durable plastic cables he had seen used on psychotic patients during his shifts at Arkham Asylum. That’s what those bonds felt like. They bit into his ankles viciously as he slowly and carefully tugged at them, trying to test their strength without drawing attention. However, they didn’t budge an inch, and neither did the handcuffs, obviously. A heavy weight pressed down on his thighs, possibly a metal bar. Jim could hardly move his lower body at all, and only slightly lift his torso. They had been thorough in restraining him, Jim would give them that. He was locked down tight.

A kidnapping squad and then all this trouble to immobilize him... whoever his abductors were, they had resources. Also, this didn’t seem like they had made an emotional, heat-of-the-moment decision to seize him literally steps away from the precinct. No. This seemed meticulously planned. God, he really hoped this wasn’t about revenge.

Silently grinding his teeth against the horrible pain in his body, Jim mentally flicked through a list of enemies capable – and willing – to do this to him, _now_ , at this point in time.

Sure, Oswald Cobblepot had every right to bear a grudge against Jim, but would he really kidnap him in this manner? Jim severely doubted it. What possible gain could there be for Penguin to kidnap him? He would hardly do it for ransom, as if the GCPD would cooperate with hostage-takers anyway (Jim sincerely hoped they wouldn’t break protocol for him, at least). Also, Oswald wasn’t the type who would use a blindfold, except perhaps for transportation to an unknown location. Jim was pretty sure Oswald would want to see his enemies cower under his enraged gaze, let them see his eyes glittering uncannily as he lashed out at them until he was drenched in crimson suffering. The cop had always found the raw emotion in Oswald’s eyes to be a weapon of some potency, so why not use it now? Last, if the aspiring mob boss truly wanted Jim dead he wouldn’t go about it this way. This whole thing wasn’t his style. On the other hand, who knew what Arkham had done to Oswald Cobblepot? He hadn’t been himself when Jim last saw him. Jim gave a terse shake of the head and pushed away the nagging feeling that made itself known at that mental image. He couldn’t do anything about the subject of Oswald now, just continue shouldering his guilt.

Likeliest to be responsible for Jim’s current predicament could be an overlooked member of Galavan’s extended family or strange sect. Jim doubted they had ever found them all. But then again, this didn’t feel like their style either. Galavan may have been crafty behind closed doors and a dazzler in public, but he had also been prone to boasting and gloating around Jim... equally his followers. So, if it was them, surely by now Jim would be hearing some kind of proclamation what sins he had committed against the sect, or being flayed alive, instead of being allowed to lie down, shackled to a bed. But the setting Jim found himself in felt more rational than Theo’s sect, somehow. Very controlled and scientific it seemed.

Meaning this could be somebody new, with an agenda Jim knew absolutely nothing about.

Jim swallowed bravely.

He wasn’t dead yet. He was alive and kicking. That was worth something.

But he was in trouble. His whole body... god, it _hurt_.

There was a dull ache residing in his chest, probably due to being shot from such a short range, even though he had worn the bullet-proof vest. It felt sore to breathe in too deeply, and his muscles felt exhausted and weak. Much worse than all that however was another, stranger sensation of pain radiating through his body – he had honestly never felt a pain like it, couldn’t compare it. He didn’t have a clue about the cause of it, making him doubly uneasy. The gunshot he could place, but the pain beyond the ache in his chest was completely unrecognizable to him. His very blood felt like it was burning with a deep-set, unknown inflammation. All his nerve endings felt painfully scorched. Even his bones felt like they were being hollowed out by fire.

_Everything hurt._

As Jim concentrated on the sensations he was feeling, breathing wasn’t just sore, but became painful too. Alarmed by the reactions of his body, he tensed, unaware he was pressing and straining against his bonds as he struggled to breathe.

_Shit. What was happening to him?_

As Jim’s thoughts gathered speed, he went through all options that sprang to mind:

Poison.

Drugs.

Radiation. That last one seemed a bit far-fetched. He had heard radiation sickness had all kinds of weird side effects, though. So, he didn’t want to rule it out.

As his breathing became more strained, Jim had to focus his full attention on getting enough oxygen. He started counting to three in his head. He needed to breathe as normal as possible, keep his head here. Not pant. Not hyperventilate, either.

In. Out.

_Breathe through the pain._

It’s okay. In. Out. It was easy. He was okay. He was breathing fine.

One, two, three. In.

One, two, three. Out.

He needed to stay calm to think. But it was damn hard to ignore the horrible, searing feeling in his body. Jim felt a prickle of wetness along his hairline, under his arms and along the inside of his thighs. He was wet, hot sweat sticking the thin gown to his aching body. He really hoped he wasn’t spiking some kind of fever. He clearly had enough problems as it was. Like getting out of here in his condition. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he had to try.

_Why were they doing this? Who were they and what did they want?_

Jim’s senses strained to find answers to his predicament. He turned his head on the pillow slowly, forcing his breathing to stay calm, eyes still unable to see a thing. If he strained his ears he was able to catch the sounds of shuffling. Somebody was around. There was also some faint beeping and whirling in the background. Was he attached to machines? He was able to hear the beeps picking up anyway. A heart monitor had to be following the thumps of the muscle within his sore chest. His heart was pounding, judging by the painful contractions inside him and the insistent rapid fire of beeps from the machine.

Something was also running into his left arm, he felt the thin tube in his flesh. Jim assumed an I.V. bag. Not good. He wanted it out. For a moment, the detective thought he could hear the tiny sound of the liquid dripping at a steady rate of drops within in the I.V bag itself, and the creak of some person’s leather shoes. He had to be imagining those sounds, though. No one could hear that kind of thing over their own strained breathing, or the beeps of the machines.

“… H-hello? Hey! I-I can hear you,” Jim managed to call out into his unknown surroundings, quietly shocked when he heard his own voice coming out that reedy.

No answer, but he heard a faint intake of breath and so he kept going.

“I know somebody’s in the room. Tell me who you are!” That was better. His voice sounded stronger now. More decisive. Less confused.

Still no answer, but somebody was stepping closer. He heard their footsteps. He also heard a loud knock, as if against a thick pane of glass, and then a door opening and closing as a second person joined the first at the side of his bed with measured footsteps.

“I’d like to participate, if you don’t mind,” a deep, male voice said without further greeting.

“Of course, sir,” a younger male voice confirmed calmly. “You haven’t missed anything, he just woke up. Heart rate is elevated, 130 bpm, mild respiratory distress, but all still within the range for his age and his current condition. I’m keeping tabs on him that he doesn’t turn arrhythmic or have any other...reactions. The batch is a bit of a kicker. But we should be in the clear for now.”

“Good.”

“Speak to me. Who are you people?” Jim demanded, turning his blindfolded face in their direction. “Take off the blindfold. Now!” he continued.

The chuckle emanating from one of the persons standing next to him was nothing short of ominous.

“We’re not taking off the blindfold,” said the younger man.

“Why is that? Never met shy abductors before,” Jim commented darkly. His fingers curled around the bonds at his wrists.

“We’re not shy. We’re cautious,” the younger man retorted, somewhat defensively.

Not the chuckler. The chuckler had been the older man.“Who we are isn’t important right now,” that man added. Jim didn’t know how a friendly tone could make him feel so uncomfortable, but it did.

So, these people wanted to be cautious, but not cautious enough to be completely silent in his presence. Maybe a detail he could wrangle out of the upcoming conversation would prove useful to get the hell out. Jim only hoped with the dizziness and the frankly disturbing level of pain he was already in he could remember everything.

“I’m Detective Gordon. So, I’m guessing you already know who I am, but in case you don’t, you’ve assaulted a police officer and taken him hostage. You sure you want to do that? There is still a way out of this,” Jim said in his best authoritative voice.

The following silence seemed heartening. “Take the blindfold off! Let’s talk about this, eye to eye. There is still a way out for you, if you r-release me now,” Jim barrelled on. As soon as the conversation had started, his breathing had become difficult to control once again. He sounded more strained and breathless than he wanted to sound at that moment, but it couldn’t be helped.

That chuckle again. The older man didn’t seem even mildly worried. Tough crowd. The older man’s voice was nagging at Jim’s memory, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

“Sorry, detective. But we’d like to keep you. We’d like you to stay right here.” The younger man said simply.

No chance of a misunderstanding, then. They specifically wanted Jim.

Not at all heartening. Also creepy as hell.

Who the hell were these freaks?

“I just gave you my name. James Gordon. It’s your turn,” Jim insisted in a further attempt to gain information. “Come on. It’s only polite to introduce yourselves, too.”

If he wasn’t able to see the faces of these people to identify them later, he was hoping to catch a name at least.

“Nice try. But I’m sorry to say, we’re not going to introduce ourselves to you, James.”

_James._

The way the older man had said his first name was oddly formal and at the same time uncomfortably _close_. No one actually called him James. Except maybe Oswald, sometimes, when he was pissed. Similar thing with Barbara, incidentally.

Jim frowned under the blindfold and squared his jaw, deciding on a slightly different tack next. His head throbbed.

“Alright. You’re the boss. You don’t want to tell me your name, that’s fine. You said you want me here. Let’s go with that. Tell me _why_. What is it you want from me?”

No answer. Then: “He’s persistent, isn’t he?” The younger man, again.

“It comes with the profession, I hear.”

“Yeah. No kidding...,”

Jim stared in the direction of the speaker through the blindfold. “I can hear you. I’m right here... ack!” A worrying bout of coughing came over Jim against his will, making his lungs feel a lot worse. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on here!” he finally growled, winded.

“A bit touchy, too.” The younger man observed. “But I think I might like him. He’s got character. Let’s see how he does on the tests.”

Right. The younger man had just been elevated to “potential psycho” in Jim’s mind.

“Explain w-what you want from me,” Jim panted, fighting to keep his tone professional and calm. “I can cooperate – let me work with you. It doesn’t have to be like t-this.”

“I’m sorry, James. Maybe after the first phase we can have a chat.”

The younger man cut in, clearly speaking to the boss. “About that, sir. The blood work just came back. Here, look.”

A sudden sense of dread settled over Jim. It was getting strenuous to breathe properly. He swallowed again, harshly.

 _First phase? Blood work?_ What were they doing?!

It wasn’t helping Jim look any more intimidating that his tongue stuck to the roof of his parched mouth and beads of sweat dribbled down over his blindfolded face as he continued pulling enough oxygen into his lungs via breathless pants.

Somehow, he sensed the older man nodding. “Excellent. I must admit, I had a feeling he’d have potential.”

“Yeah, well. With all due respect sir, I was worried about your choice with this one.”

The little information Jim could parse out from what the two unknown men were saying to each other was deeply troubling to the cop. He was only one of them? _God._

“We can handle him. He can’t possibly free himself. Just look at him.”

“Hmm...,” the younger man paused briefly. “Well, these results are promising. It would be great if he didn’t die just when things start to get interesting. Getting tired of failure, sir.”

_Ah, shit... how many had these people killed?_

“I agree. But good things come to those who wait, as they say. I think we can expect great things.”

“Wait a minute... sir, see this?” Jim’s ears caught a light tapping sound, a pen against a clip board. “It must be a glitch in analysis. It can’t be right.”

The boss just grunted. “I’m sure it is. Concentrate on the task at hand.”

Jim’s thoughts raced as he dissolved into another bout of hacking coughs.

What was _wrong_ with him? Was it linked to this... complete anguish he was enduring?

“W-What the hell are you d-doing to me?” Jim pressed out breathlessly. Sweat streamed down his body as the heat in his torso and head intensified. “And w-why?”

Stubbornly, Jim still pushed down vocal sounds of pain his body desperately wanted to utter, just the panting wouldn’t stop. He needed to take control of the conversation and the situation, but he didn’t know how, not like this. He had failed with his negotiation skills and his threats and he had no apparent power over them.

He was blindfolded and shackled to a bed, completely defenceless, trapped by unknown people and unable to play down the agony he was in much longer. Jim felt nauseous and dizzy, and under the duress of the mounting pain the edges of his composure were wearing down rapidly. All of the strange symptoms were getting worse, the profuse sweating as well as his breathing inspiring some anxiety. His body ached and _burned_... and he wasn’t in any state to escape.

Jim still had no clear idea what his captors wanted and didn’t even know how much time had passed since he had been taken away. Was anyone even looking for him yet? No doubt Harvey would get worried about him. Jim suddenly felt a tinge of sadness –no doubt it was an awful burden for Harvey to be Jim’s friend. But it wasn’t as if Jim wanted all this craziness to constantly happen to him – it found him. He didn’t need any of this! Jim knew his partner would come looking for him no matter what, but would he have any evidence to go on, or any help?

And what, in the hell, were these scientific types planning to _do_ with him? Why do any bloodwork? Why the machines around him?

Jim had dealt with straightforward violence, gunshot wounds, poison, narcotic drugs and terror attacks, but this was new. This sounded like... something horrible done in the name of science, a completely new form of dishing out hurt. He pictured it as invasive, cruel and humiliating.

The detective didn’t want to admit it, but he was beginning to feel more than a little scared.

Not scared. Jim, for the first time in ages, felt... almost... _terrified_.

He didn’t want to be used as a guinea pig in some horrific experiment.

It was impossible to keep his breathing calm as his heart clenched up painfully, then pounded on, steadily climbing as he fought against the onset of panic. The machine’s beeps rose to a low, constant wail of protest.

“Oh, I don’t like this. Heart rate and respiration aren’t looking good.” The younger man sounded worried. “The fever is setting in quickly, sir.”

“Maybe the batch is taking hold faster. At least I hope it is. You know the drill in any case.”

“Of course. But he is looking... strained...I think we should -,”

“There’s no nee-,”

“It was _you_ ,” Jim interrupted both of them suddenly, voice laced with dread as realization finally struck where he had heard the deeper voice before. “You were there, at the train station. You s-said something to me.”

He gave yet another deep, hacking cough, sounding as if he wanted to hurl out his lungs. God, it hurt, _it hurt_. Instinctively, Jim tried to make a move to clutch at his aching chest protectively, but was unable to because of the cruel bonds that kept forcing him back. With a faint growl of agitation, he settled back down again.

“You went there in _person_? What about being cautious?!” the younger man exclaimed meanwhile, sounding very taken aback.

“A brief lapse in judgement. But I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to bring him in myself. He didn’t see me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” The boss said to the younger man calmly. To Jim, he continued with: “Not bad, detective. And do you remember what it was?” This was said in a vaguely intrigued tone.

“You s-said... I was perfect,” Jim said haltingly, hating the mounting horror his tone. “W-why would you say that to me? Perfect for w-what, exactly?”

“I was excited to meet you. I was _very_ excited. James, what can I tell you?”

“Answer the damn question what you’re doing to me, whoever you are! You can t-tell me that, at least!” Jim wheezed out with a defiant air.

“I can’t. Yet. Maybe after the first phase.”

“The first phase.”

“If you survive it. Please survive it, James. Can we agree on that?”

“I – I have no idea what you _mean_! And why do you keep calling me by my first name?”

“Of course you don’t. You have no idea.”

“Then g-give me an idea! _Ack!_ ” Jim demanded in a strained voice and coughed again. He was starting to lose his patience with this strange man and his associate. “Why can’t you tell me what you want from me?!”

“I’m sorry, James. You’ll have to be patient.”

“I don’t believe you are sorry about anything happening here,” Jim panted out. “And I d-don’t understand why you’re doing all t-this.”

“I guessed as much, James. You have your principles, I suppose, and I have mine.” Another chuckle. “Ha, déjà vu. Uncanny...,”

“Please. Why these games? Why am I here?” Jim tried one last time, angling his torso to sit up as much as possible, his wrists straining against the shackles. He felt himself swaying slightly in the bed as the dizziness returned.

And the excruciating pain was getting _worse._

“ _Ugh_... W- What?” Jim stuttered, hating the way his voice broke slightly under the duress of the raging flames running through his body.

_How could the pain possibly get any worse than this?_

His body felt like liquid metal. And every breath was a red-hot poker being rammed through his torso. _He was far too hot!_

Maybe he had been thrown into a barrel of acid and this wasn’t real. Maybe this was his interpretation of hell. Maybe he was already dead...?

God, whatever it was, he couldn’t stand the flames of pain. He needed to get out of here! 

"James, calm down...,” the older man said sternly, but Jim was reaching a point where he was losing all coherent thought. He was hot, _far too hot_ , and helplessly forced to endure unimaginable pain.

He tried to steady his breathing, but it wasn’t helping. Shit. He couldn’t breathe properly...!

He wanted to curl in on himself, but the restraints were uncompromising. The unjust and inhumane treatment suddenly made his blood boil even hotter, and a red anger surged through him. Jim suddenly found himself fighting against the restrains with mindless violence in a desperate attempt to get free. He pulled and thrashed so viciously that they cut into his wrists and ankles deep enough to draw blood.

Nothing budged. Jim simply couldn’t get free by his own strength. He fell back onto the pillow at last, sweating profusely and trembling across his whole body. Every breath was terribly labored. All Jim could think was that these insane people seemed intent on doing something terrible to him, and he didn’t even know _what_.

“He’s in respiratory distress. Wait, I’m giving him oxygen.”

Jim immediately tried to twist away from the touch, but strong hands held his head down.

“ _N- No...._ ”

He groaned when a mask was fumbled over his mouth, and tubes were clipped into his nostrils. He heard a loud click. A very loud hissing and wheezing sound filled Jim’s ears, causing him to jump like a spooked horse. The machine started pushing the much needed oxygen into his lungs.

“What are you doing to me?!” he wheezed through the plastic of the mask over his mouth.

“Keeping you alive, obviously. Don’t fight it, don’t make it any worse for yourself,” The younger man’s voice said, lightly scolding.

Jim closed his eyes under the heavy blindfold, unable to hold back a deep, terrible groan of pain escape through his clenched teeth. Sightlessly, he felt his fingers wrapping tightly around the metal frame of the bedstead in anguish.

“You’re right. He’s exhausted. He needs to rest.” Barely hearing them anymore, Jim took wheezing, painful breaths through the mask, desperately trying to breathe normally. He was completely soaked in sweat and felt like a race horse that had run a hundred miles without stopping.

A hand suddenly wrapped around his wrist, almost in a strange attempt to comfort.

“I think that will be it for now. We will speak again...,”

The detective’s nerves screamed out in protest as the terrible, burning pain intensified under the simple pressure of the cold hand.

Just that one touch to his sensitized flesh hurt like a brand. Jim failed in containing what he was going through any longer. He made a sound somewhere between a sharp snarl and a howl, surprising the two men as he twisted away, violently shaking off the cold hand as if burned.

“ _What the-!_ ” the younger man exclaimed.

“ _DON’T...!!!_ ” Jim snarled. His body was shivering violently.

“Fucking...d-d-don’t-t...t-t-touch me!!!”

“Okay, James! _Okay_...,” There was very faint note of worry in the older man’s voice now. “You do need to rest. This isn’t easy for your body to handle, and you’re suffering from a high fever, among other things. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Then, a long pause fell on the room, the silence filled only with Jim taking horrible wheezing breaths through the mask as his hands clenched and unclenched mechanically, still fighting against the inescapable situation.

“Unless you’re dead, that is. That would be disappointing...,” the older man supplied at last in a musing tone. Like he was staring at an insect through a magnifying glass, calm and collected.

“Please. S-s-stop... this...I d-don’t w-want this...,” Jim wheezed.

It was hard not to lose consciousness as he rapidly slid into a full-fledged delirium.

“Send him under. He doesn’t need to be conscious for this. I just wanted to meet him.” The older man said to the younger man.

“Got it...,”

Jim heard the drips of the I.V. bag changing speed, and another syringe press into his flesh, this time into his arm.

“N-no! Wait! You d-don’t need to do t-t-this...,” Jim said, slurring his last words as the sedative settled over him heavily. “No....”

“I’m sorry, but I must insist, James. I _do_ need to do this... I have been waiting a long time, after all.”

Blackness and pain wrapped around Jim’s feverish mind and he was almost happy for it.


	5. Nothing is certain, except death and taxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, folks!  
> So first, I'd like to apologize for the longer wait. This chapter felt a bit like a battle, or in other words gave me a really hard time. There are thematic reasons for this, and personal reasons. Warnings for: Fairly graphic descriptions of a crime scene / body - and even more original characters! No further violence for a change. I know, what a shock!! Enjoy the break while you can, because obviously we're still stumbling towards the light here and who knows what could happen! ;-).  
> If you like what I'm attempting in this fic please take the time to give me a sign! I'd appreciate it, believe me :-).  
> Have a great day, next chapter coming soon!

The cloudy morning has given way to sheets of icy rain by the time detectives Bullock and Alvarez pulled up in front of the large sprawling building complex that was Gotham Central Crematorium. Harvey grimaced, pulled his fedora hat down a little lower over his bearded face and shouldered through the uncomfortable weather with Alvarez at his side. Stepping through the massive, wrought-iron gates into a cobbled yard, they were greeted by a woman waiting patiently for them beneath a large black umbrella. Harvey judged her to be in her late thirties, maybe early forties. She wore a white lab coat and a rather somber expression. Her dark hair was drawn back from her pale face. In a subtle show of elegance, pearl earrings peeped through the dark strands. 

“Good morning. You’re the detectives from the GCPD?” the woman inquired, looking at both of them closely from under the dripping edge of the umbrella. Her expression was a little harassed beneath the polite façade. 

“We are, Ma’am,” Alvarez said. 

“Good. I’m Simone Arclay, one of the supervisors at Gotham Crematorium. I thought it would be better to meet you here...,”

Harvey gave her a respectful nod. “I’m Detective Bullock, and this is my temporary partner, Detective Alvarez,” he said. Alvarez grunted an acknowledgement, coat done up under his chin to keep out the rain. 

Arclay lifted the huge umbrella higher, offering the detectives a bit of clumsy protection. “Nice to meet you… well, you know what I mean… we’re glad you could come down here so quickly.”

“Yeah. Thank you for meeting us,” Harvey said. Automatically, he brought up his hand to shake hers, but stalled and let it fall back awkwardly when he noticed she was wearing thin latex gloves and shaking her head almost unperceptively at him with a smile tugging at her lips. 

“Sorry, Detective… we’re not used to dealing with the living around here,” Simone said apologetically. “Believe me, you really don’t want to shake my hand right now.”

“Right…,” Harvey said with a faint wince. He looked up and around, eyes surveying the long, two story main building of the Crematorium in front. The whole Crematorium was actually a huge, c-shaped complex, with aged bricks in grey and dark brown, and two shorter, adjourning buildings that were connected to the main building by brick fly-over corridors on the first floor. Behind the central building, Harvey could see more rooftops, and ominous blackened funnels spewing a steady stream of greyish hot air into the hanging clouds above. 

“Jeez, this is a big place…,” the detective murmured. “I bet you can get kinda lost in here if you aren’t careful, huh?” he added, looking at Arclay. 

“Precisely. Which is why I thought I’d better meet you here. It’s a labyrinth– when I started out, I needed several weeks to orientate myself!” Simone gave a half-chuckle. “Come, let’s get out of the rain. I’ll show you where we found the… well, remains…,”

“Lead the way,” Alvarez grunted, mildly impatient. 

Simone gave a curt nod. “Of course. Follow me, please.” 

Glad to get out of the rain, the three of them stepped through a pair of large double-doors easily big enough for the morbid use the gothic-style building had been built for. A long, empty, clinically clean hallway illuminated by stroboscope bars awaited them, doors on either side leading into other unknown parts of the building complex. Faint tracks of metal wheels on the dark green linoleum floor indicated how many years the Crematorium had served its purpose already. As far as Harvey could remember, the Crematorium and Arkham Asylum had been built around the same time, roughly at the turn of the century. There could be any number of corridors, grimy cellars and unused corners in this conundrum of brick and ash. So much to look forward to, Harvey thought to himself. 

“What can you tell us about the body, … Miss Arclay?” Alvarez inquired, while Harvey kept quiet and looked around, trying to take note of as many details as possible.   
Simone canted her head to the side as she glanced back at Alvarez. Under the white lab coat, she loose-fitting, powder blue medical slacks. Her face was quite angular in the harsh white light, her hazel eyes alert. 

“First off, please just call me Simone. Anything else makes me uncomfortable,” she said. “Secondly, I think the word “body” might be an overstatement… you’ll see why I said “remains” in a minute.”

Harvey smirked to himself. Here, Simone was in her own (albeit macabre) house, and she knew what she was doing. Alvarez frowned. “Aha?”

They turned off the main corridor and followed a more dimly lit corridor, finally coming to a halt before a half-closed, thick metal door. Rusted patches grew like fungus across its worn face. The door was thick and sported a large metal bar at waist level, a cracked “pull” sign beneath. Harvey noticed the old, heavy-duty lock was intact, it didn’t look as if it had been forced in any way.

Alvarez looked at the door with an expression of foreboding and sniffed uncomfortably.

“So, I guess it’s in there?” 

“It is.”

Trusting his gut feeling that it wasn’t going to be easy to ask important questions in the dark room beyond the door, Harvey briefly held up a hand, stopping Simone from opening the door further. “Sorry lady, just a moment. We’ve got a few questions before we go in there, if that’s alright?”

“Don’t you want to see the crime scene?” Simone asked, looking confused. 

“It’s not the main crime scene, I bet,” Alvarez corrected. “Just the location of the body. There’s a difference.” 

The supervisor stared at him and blinked. “Oh, damn. You’re probably right…,”   
She harshly brushed a stray strand of hair out of the way. “Oh god, I just thought it was going to be like every given Tuesday, you know? Suddenly we have to deal with this… sorry, I’m not thinking very straight. Guess I’m rushing you? Of course you must have questions! W-what do you want me to do?” 

“No, it’s alright. This whole thing must quite a shock to the system, even if you’re used to… well…,” Harvey said.

“… the Dead?” Simone quipped, with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah…, I guess know them. Comes with the job description. But this…it’s not right, it’s foul!”

Harvey made a placating gesture. 

“You’re right. It is foul. We’re going to do our best to clear up what really happened here, so that you can get back to your job as soon as possible. An investigation of this kind is a nerve-racking business, especially if you need to keep doing your job in the middle of it,” Harvey said. “But we need to take it slow, we don’t want to miss anything vital here.”

Simone took a breath and nodded. “Sure. That makes total sense.” She looked Harvey directly in the eye. “How do we do this, then?” 

“Just standard procedure. We’d like ask you a few questions before we proceed into that room and take a look at the remains. That okay?” 

The woman nodded. Glancing at Alvarez, Harvey beckoned her a few steps away from the door and got out his notepad, which looked a little worse for wear with all the coffee stains adorning it. 

“So, let’s start at the beginning. Can you tell please us who found the remains?”

Simone looked at him. “Well, uh, when I started my shift this morning, one of the cleaning personnel, Mr. Gonzalez, immediately came up to me and brought this to my attention.”   
She pointed back towards the corridor they had come from. 

“He said he had been cleaning the main corridor when he had noticed the smell from there. Leaving the cleaning stuff, he went to investigate, fearing one of the old ovens could be malfunctioning somehow…,” Simone said. 

“When did this Mr. Gonzalez notice the smell?” Alvarez asked. 

“Around 6.45 this morning, he said to me,” Simone said. “He hadn’t wanted to call in the Police without speaking to one of the supervisors first, didn’t want to deal with all the fuss himself. I arrived at work at eight. We then opened the door together around 08.15.” 

The woman swallowed nervously, before she continued. “That’s, uh, when we found the body. The oven was still very hot, so I left the door half-open from then on so the room could cool a little. I was the one who called it in at the GCPD.”

“Okay. And you had keys to open the door, but Gonzalez didn’t, right?”

“Correct. The access to the ovens is restricted to the workers in that part of the building.”

“So Mr. Gonzalez was the one who noticed the smell, but you were the first to open the door, and technically you found the body together?”

“You’re going to have to show Forensics where you touched things in the room,” Alvarez reminded her at the same time as Harvey asked his question. Simone just nodded to Alvarez and answered: “Yes.”

“Was the door just closed, or also locked when you opened it?” Harvey asked. 

“I…,” Simone frowned. “Honestly, I’m not quite sure… I was alarmed by the smell and the heat and just wanted to see what was going on as quickly as possible…,”

“That’s okay. Maybe you’ll remember it again,” Harvey said. “Can this door be pulled open if it’s just fallen back into the lock?”

“I think you used to be able to pull it open if it had fallen closed. But the door, like the oven, is old. I wouldn’t try and open it without a key anymore… and a lot of force.” Simone supplied. “Actually, I could hardly open the door without using both the key and having Mr. Gonzalez’ helping hand.”

“Aha. That doesn’t sound practical for a work place…,” Alvarez remarked. 

“Well, you see Detective, this whole corridor and the adjourning rooms are seldom in use, so it’s not such a problem in our daily work,” Simone said to Alvarez, faintly defensive. “Only few people have the key to this door…,”

“Oh?” Harvey said innocently, taking the cue. “And why is that?”

“We seldom use this wing of the building,” Simone stated. “Behind this door is one of the oldest ovens we have at Gotham Crematorium, and… it isn’t always that reliable for an even distribution of heat, among other problems. It’s a monstrosity, from days past. So, we don’t like using it, we usually keep to the more modern equipment set up in the main building.”

“How frequently do you check the rooms down here? Do you still use the oven?” Harvey continued. 

We only use this oven room if the Crematorium has a sufficient backlog of bodies that need to be taken care of quickly. That hasn’t happened for a year or so. Only a few people even own a key to this door. We don’t check down here that often. Once a week, tops.”

“How many people would you say own a key to the room?” Alvarez cut in, looking at Simone intently. 

“Maybe… I don’t know, another two people? My colleagues, Mulligan and Campbell, the other supervisors, should certainly have a key.”

“We would like to speak to those people. And to Mr. Gonzalez.” Alvarez said. “Would that be possible?” 

“I think so,” Simone said slowly. “But, if you don’t mind me asking: You’re thinking an inside job, gentlemen?” 

“That would be too early to say...,” Harvey said, stalling. 

Simone stared at him and narrowed her eyes, a troubled look fleeting through them. “Hmm-Mmmh…,”

“So, are your direct colleagues in the building right now, or…?” 

“Yeah…,” Simone rubbed her head and sighed. “No, …wait. I think Mr. Mulligan called in sick for the rest of the week. He wasn’t doing that well yesterday, when I last saw him. Seemed to be coming down with something. And Mr. Gonzalez was really upset about it all, seemed to think he should have noticed it earlier. I sent him home for the day after we got the door open. He wasn’t in a fit state to work after our find. But you could speak to Mr. Campbell, he’s in the office.” 

Alvarez gave an unhappy sigh, but at a warning glance from his partner not to stress out the woman any more, stayed silent. 

“Yeah, alright. We’ll start with Mr. Campbell then. How many people work here in total?” Alvarez asked after a pause. 

“Um… let me think. I’d say… um, with management we’re 48 people, me included.”

“Jeez…,” Alvarez said, raising his eyebrows. Harvey knew what he was thinking: If they wanted to speak to all of them, and reconstruct how everyone knew each other, this was one huge case for two already overworked Homicide Detectives. 

“Well, it’s not just about shoveling bodies into the flames, you know?! We have all kinds of different odd jobs in here. A few pathologists, even two reverends to do the memorial services…, cleaners, engineers, embalmers, …” Simone countered, still slightly defensive about her work place. 

“Right…,” Alvarez nodded, making notes. “Okay. So it’s a real business…,” 

“Only certain thing, apart from taxes,” the woman suddenly quipped. At Harvey’s blank look, Simone explained: “Come on. You know, what people always say? Nothing is certain in this world, except Death and Taxes?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Harvey said. Both detectives nodded, half-smiling at her valiant attempt to lighten the mood. It just wasn’t working that well, and the heat and faint tendrils of an awful smell wafting through the almost-closed metal door behind them wasn’t helping, either. 

“Do you have any other questions for now?” Simone asked. 

Harvey traded a brief glance with his temporary partner. “Would you be willing to come to the precinct today or tomorrow? We might have a few more things we would want to go over then.”

“Sure. I can come over after work, or tomorrow.” She sighed. “I just wish this horrible thing hadn’t happened here, or I could do more to help.”

“You’re doing all you can. We appreciate that,” Alvarez surprised both of them with his suddenly more conciliatory demeanor. 

“Thanks,” Simone smiled at him. “Just trying to do my job… but this whole procedure isn’t something I’m familiar with. I’m a bit stressed…,” She cleared her throat. “So, gentlemen, shall I show you the remains?”

“Please,” Harvey said, whereas Alvarez looked uncomfortable again and just nodded. 

Simone looked both of them over. “Prepare yourselves. This is an ugly one. Even for me.”

As soon as they entered the room, a wave of heat struck them, along with the smell of ash and a horrible scent of burnt flesh. Harvey swallowed harshly, pushing down the nausea, but Alvarez was less subtle, gagging behind the hand he had lifted to protect his mouth and nose. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Alvarez choked out. “The smell… disgusting!” 

Harvey’s eyes flicked over his partner coldly, totally unimpressed by his lack of control. “Guess you should expect that when you have a crime scene at a Crematorium. Talk about “extra-crispy”… this doesn’t smell any worse than some of the joints down on 27th street, if you ask me.” 

“Don’t say that. You really have no shame, Bullock,” Alvarez muttered, turning a light shade of green. 

“I call it being realistic,” Harvey said. “Did you think this crime scene was going to smell of roses, or what?” 

“Man, fuck off. Of course not…,” 

“Well then, keep it together, Alvarez. I need a partner that can do that.” Harvey said in a harsh tone, making Simone frown at him slightly. 

“Yeah, I’m trying…,”

Harvey knew he was being hard on Alvarez, for whom this was probably the first fire victim from the way he was reacting to the smell and overall awful picture. The room was mostly dark and hot, the open Crematorium oven’s interior throwing flickering faint reddish light over the blackened walls. It looked like they had fallen into Hell. And the smell wasn’t easy to take, not at all. But even if Alvarez was honestly holding his own quite well, Harvey nevertheless wished there was someone else standing at his side, bright eyes darting over details he was probably going to miss and couldn’t count on Alvarez not to miss, as well. 

Simone gave an apologetic wince. “Gentlemen, I can get you masks, if you’d like, for protection. Doesn’t help much against the smell, though.” 

“Its alright,” Harvey reassured her. “Believe me, you see a lot worse as a Homicide Detective in Gotham.”

Alvarez looked less sure, but frowned and followed, hand still over his mouth in a flimsy protective gesture as Simone lead them closer to the location of the remains. 

The hellish room was empty except for a lone forensic scientist, Anna Johnson, newly transferred to the GCPD only two weeks ago (And trying her best to fill the gaping hole that weirdo Nygma had left behind after he had become a criminal mastermind and murderer). Johnson was a small woman with a pixie-like face and short, curly blond hair that stuck up in tufts, making her look almost tomboyish. She looked up as they came closer and nodded at the detectives she had seen a few times at the precinct. Johnson narrowed her green eyes slightly and lifted a lone eyebrow when she noticed Alvarez accompanying Bullock, but said nothing about the strange pairing. 

“Hey, Detectives. Welcome to the Underworld. Hope you like it hot,” she called out. “Hey, yourself.” Harvey said with a faint smile. “What you got for us here, Anna?”

Anna was gingerly stepping around the huge, oven-like machine near the back of the room from where the smell was emanating from. 

Some parts of the floor had been marked by her with tape and numbered tags. Anna had set up lamps on thin, spindly legs. Two lamps already cast stark white cones of light into the macabre gloom. The oven was still warm, a large heavy thing in black with a black metal door. On a metal sheet protruding from the oven, which was attached to fire-proof metal runners, the detectives glimpsed a severely charred figure. 

“How about some human Jerky?” Anna commented dryly. 

“Nice one,” Harvey said with a mixture of a wince and a grin. He looked at Alvarez. “You see? The young lady here can handle it. Why can’t you?” 

“Not much left of… it.” Alvarez remarked, staring at the body and completely ignoring Harvey’s cruel tease. 

“You could say that,” Anna confirmed. “Not sure how we can identify the body.”

Simone stepped closer, face neutral. “Interesting. The hands are missing entirely…,” 

“Didn’t you say the oven burned unevenly? Maybe the hands have already been turned to ash?” Alvarez asked.

“Maybe so,” Simone confirmed. “But look at the wrists, Detective. Even in this state, the break line between the charred body and…, well, nothingness, it’s too clean. That wasn’t done by fire of the oven, believe me. If I had to guess… then the hands were removed on purpose before the body was placed there,” Simone said. “And if I’m right, there won’t be any bone fragments amongst the ash.”

“I agree with that assessment,” Anna piped up. “I also don’t think this body was that fresh to begin with. I can’t say for sure before I get it to the pathology lab, but honestly, I think it was starting to rot before someone decided to incinerate it.”

“Why do you think that?” Harvey asked. 

“Because of the way the tissue of the body has reacted to the heat, and also…,” Anna swallowed and smiled grimly. “That smell isn’t just a burnt smell. Burnt bodies don’t smell quite this bad, usually,” she said, while Simone nodded slowly in the background.

“You’re saying you think someone decided to incinerate a handless, already putrefying body? That’s… kinda extreme,” Harvey commented, frowning deeply as he looked down at the grisly remains. 

“This isn’t just extreme, it’s sick…!” Alvarez grated. It was more than apparent his righteous anger was bubbling directly under the surface. “Who would do this to a body? I hope the poor soul was dead before they cut its hands off!”

Everyone looked grim at that. 

Meanwhile, a lot of thoughts were running through Harvey’s head. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, that was for sure. He wished Captain Barnes had given it to someone else, because he honestly wasn’t sure Alvarez and him were going to be able to crack it.

What had been going on in the sick person’s head who did this to kill, cut the hands off – and where were they, anyway? – let the body rot somewhere else first, and then suddenly decide to bring the body here to burn it? It was equally possible that different parts of the puzzle could have been committed by different people, which would be their kind of luck. It was deeply frustrating to the seasoned Homicide Detective not to have that much to go on yet, but it wasn’t that they had nothing, either. The door seemed a good starting point, as well as interviewing that witness, Gonzalez, as well as Simone’s colleagues, Mr. Mulligan and Mr. Campbell. 

Harvey was of Alvarez’ opinion, whoever the poor victim had been, he – or maybe she? – hadn’t been killed here, in this hellhole. So where, and why, and when, had the person been killed? Or maybe it had been an accident and someone wanted to cover up who had died, and how?

Maybe how the person had died could be a clue in itself to the perpetrator’s identity?

It couldn’t have been that easy to gain access to the Crematorium, especially to this room, and why then not finish the job properly? Maybe someone had access to the room, but hadn’t known the quirks of this particular oven? But surely, if someone wanted to go to so much trouble, they would make sure the body was completely destroyed? Unless something had disturbed the person before they had finished the job of incinerating it properly? 

Harvey’s eyes wandered to the gapping jaw of the machine. 

Fire, he thought detachedly. 

Supposedly cleansing, complete eradication of the corporal body. Which is why cremation was an age-old ritual to send off the dead… to where- or whatever came next.   
Maybe they needed to consider a ritualistic background to the case?

Alvarez gagged again. “E-Excuse me, I’ll be outside the door.”

Harvey nodded at him, preferring his colleagues go get some air before he embarrassed them all. 

Alvarez hurried away quickly. The other detective just shook his head, suddenly really wanting to take a sip out of his hip flask. He didn't have the time or the strength for this case, and it obviously wasn't going to be a joy ride working together with Alvarez. 

“Maybe the Mob?” Anna ventured timidly, addressing Alvarez’ question after a moment of silence. 

“Maybe…,” Harvey admitted, although this didn’t feel like the Mob to him, at least not definitely. 

“It’s going to be hell to identify this body, that’s for sure… with the hands missing, we can’t check any fingerprints, but then with the intense heat that might have proven difficult anyway…, visual identification is also completely out of the question, obviously…,” Anna continued. 

“What about the teeth? Maybe we could do a dental identification of the victim?” Harvey suggested, wincing slightly when he saw the state of the head and torso. “Uh, on second thoughts…,”

“That could prove difficult too,” Simone ventured, standing on the other side of the tray-like metal thing the body was still lying on. “Some teeth have blackened and cracked in the heat of the oven, and I don’t think anyone can reconstruct them. But maybe a few teeth will be useful for dental identification, if you’re lucky and this person even had a dentist with records…,”

“Well, we’ll take any forensic evidence we can scratch together, right, Anna? You’ll help us out, won’t you?” Harvey didn’t know how he managed an upbeat tone in this disaster of a crime scene, but it worked. 

Anna gave him a grateful look. “I’ll try my best! Maybe we’ll be lucky with a blood sample… if it’s salvageable… or break the bank and run a genetic test!” 

“What, like that DNA crap? The lab does genetic tests, now?” Harvey asked, intrigued. “Barnes must have pulled some strings to get that sort of financial backing.”

“Well, it’s supposed to be used as a last resort, but the way things are looking, we might just get to do it,” Anna said. “I’m dying to try it out sometime.” 

“Is there anything else about the body you can tell us at this time?”

“Well, I… I’m still waiting for the body to cool off before we move it to the pathology lab, so as not to destroy any other forensic evidence,” Anna explained as she moved around the body and pointed out a few things. “But I think from the build and size, we’re probably talking about a middle-aged male victim. I already said I think the body was starting to decompose before it was placed here, so time of death might be a few days ago… hard to say, really. Could also be a week, or more.”

Harvey nodded. “Guess you can’t tell me any estimate of the cause of death either, huh?”

“Uh, no. That would just be another wild guess at this point.”

“We just have to wait what else you can find out when you’ve got it in the lab. Thanks, Anna.”

Harvey turned to Simone, who was staring at the body until she felt his gaze and looked up at him with an unreadable expression. 

“You know this oven, right?” Harvey asked. “You’ve used it before.”

Simone nodded. 

“Judging from the current temperature, when do you think it was fired up by the perp?”

“Hmm,” Simone said thoughtfully, going over to some dials at the side of the oven and also studying some levers of the machine. “There is a margin of error here, but I think sometime yesterday evening would be realistic.”

“Can you be a bit more specific?” 

“Roughly? Between seven and ten pm, maybe?” Simone sighed. “It’s not an easy question to answer. This oven is full of quirks, as I've already pointed out.”

“Alright. And do you know who may have still been working on the premises at that time?”

Simone cocked her head and gave him a sudden glare. “Are you actually asking me where I was between seven and ten, Detective?”

Harvey gave her his best disarming smile, but he had the feeling it wasn’t going too well. “I’m sorry, Simone. That’s not what I meant, but it’s true I was going to ask you that question later…, its standard procedure…,” 

“Then, as you were going to ask me anyway: I was at home, trying to enjoy my evening off. I was alone, unless you call my cat having an alibi. I didn’t know I would need an alibi the next day,” Simone supplied coolly, clearly miffed by the insinuation she had anything to do with this. “And the other answer is: No, I have no idea who was on the premises at that time. Probably one or two people working late in the office, and the security guard who does his rounds at night.”

“Thanks…,” Harvey said, feeling he had fucked this up somehow. 

“Sure. We all want the same thing here,” Simone said, frowning at him. “Anything else, Detective? I’d like to get back to work now, if you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine. Thank you again…,” Harvey said, trying for a grateful tone. Simone gave him a curt nod and turned on her heel smoothly, exiting the room as well, leaving Harvey with Anna, who looked him up and down and chuckled. 

“And here I thought your bedside manner was sometimes better than Jim’s,” she chuckled. “You seem a bit… off. Are you okay?” 

“I’m peachy, Anna. Just… peachy,” Harvey said, hating how much it stung to hear her mention Jim in front of him right now, when he was secretly worried sick and having trouble concentrating on this new case, which was obviously going to need all his concentration, as fucked up as it was.

“Oookay…,” Anna said, sounding absolutely unconvinced.

*

It had been a long day when Harvey finally managed to leave his desk at the precinct.

Considering the Crematorium Case, nothing of further interest had turned up when they had questioned Mr. Campbell, and Simone hadn’t come in to the precinct later, saying she would come the next day. The body had finally been transported to Pathology. Mr. Mulligan was unreachable at home, but apart from leaving a message on his main line phone to please get into contact as soon as possible and ringing the doorbell at his flat, there wasn’t much more they could do without a search warrant. Mr. Gonzalez has been strangely panicked on the phone, but had promised to come in to the precinct as soon as he was able to.

Harvey didn’t want to make too many uneducated guesses what had actually happened at the Crematorium, or before. He had decided to wait for the results of the autopsy, as well as the lab results. And with the six missing person’s cases already on his desk, equally frustrating cases because of their lack of hard evidence, Harvey certainly had enough on his plate. 

And then there was Jim, who hadn’t reappeared, or sent a sign of life… all day long. 

What the fuck was up with that???

Harvey was angry with himself. He had felt it that morning, that something awful had to have happened to his partner, and yet he had had to continue his job as if everything was fine. It wasn’t fine. And he wasn’t fine, or peachy. He was getting palpitations. 

The A.P.B. Barnes had put out for James Gordon hadn’t led to anything yet. The Cap was worried what had happened to Gordon, too, but not nearly enough in Harvey’s opinion. He was apparently on his own in this, if he wanted to find Jim quickly, on top of his work load. Great. 

Straight from work, feeling tired and hungry, Harvey went over to Jim’s apartment, brandishing the spare key the Boy Scout had entrusted to him for safekeeping. He had to check the apartment, at least.

Maybe Jim had been on the worst bender of his life, and was lying in a dead faint on the bathroom floor. Yeah, as if…! But still, Harvey knew he had to check. 

Naturally, Jim wasn’t home. 

Harvey took a long time checking the small apartment, noting the uncommon amount of empty bottles, the piles of washing, the haphazard state of the kitchen and the fridge, the unmade bed and the pillow and blanket on the couch, next to even more bottles and books with weird titles and dreary topics littering the coffee table. The place was a mess.   
At last, Harvey slumped back in one of Jim’s armchairs, giving a huge sigh as he rubbed his forehead. Darkness of the dying day crept through the dusty window blinds. 

Slanting shadows fell on the few personal possessions the Boy Scout had adorned his spare walls with. Harvey looked at them unseeingly, trying to devise a plan what to do next.   
Who could he even turn to if he wanted to find Jim? Who would want to help him, if even the Police Captain seemed to have his doubts about Gordon? 

There was an old framed photo of Jim, then just a child of six or seven. A handsome kid. Blue, serious eyes and golden hair with a messy fringe, smiling as he stood between two adults, probably his parents. He was leaning into his father’s side, tiny hand tightly holding on to his father’s suit jacket, a noticeable gap between him and his mother. 

Harvey sighed, remembering that Jim had told him how his father had died in that awful car accident, Jim trapped and screaming in the passenger seat. Jim hadn’t had much happiness in his life after that point. 

There were just another four photos on the wall: 

Jim, wearing a determined expression, stiff-brimmed army hat pulled down low against the harsh sun. He was hunkering down with a group of gaunt soldiers in the reddish-yellow dust of a unknown location, maybe Iran or Afghanistan. 

The Boy Scout at his graduation ceremony from the Police Academy, looking strangely unreachable in his uniform, alone. Ethereal, that was the word. 

Jim and Lee, laughing in the sunlight, her arms encircling his neck. Harvey sincerely hoped Lee Thompkins was happy, wherever she had disappeared to after the events leading to Jim going to Blackgate Prison and her loss of their baby. He also hoped she wouldn’t return, because honestly, both of them had broken each other’s heart and deserved to find somebody else to mend the damage, if it was even possible. 

Last, a framed newspaper clipping of Jim and Harvey, both with serious expressions, basically trying to stare the camera down as they leaned against one of their desks, the precinct in the background. Underneath, in bold lettering, ran the capture: “Star Detectives take down the next threat to Gotham’s safety, heavy casualties avoided.” 

Harvey closed his eyes. 

“Dammit, Jim,” he declared to the empty apartment. “What the fuck happened to you, man?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I would like to add a few notes here towards my ideas of canon or maybe just my head-canon of the series. In my mind, the Gotham TV series is set in the late eighties, at the very most very early nineties. So I'm talking about a time period somewhere between 1986 and 1992. Personally speaking, I have the feeling the screenwriters and producers have secretly intended this kind of timeline from the very beginning, with a few changes to technological and other advancements make certain things in the episodes work out the way they needed them to. The Gotham series would then eventually lead up to the more-or-less real-time Dark Knight movies, in my mind at least. In the series, they keep mixing things to keep the time frame vague for sure, but I recognized several eighties songs that were used in some scenes, then of course we have the ancient-looking computers and bulky cell phones, if we have them at all, also I find the dress code reminds me awfully of the early nineties, just without the garish colors... oh well, I may be wrong... just ignore these ramblings if this is absolutely not your thing, ok? 
> 
> What I wanted to say was: Just please bear in mind when you read this chapter that the methods of identification of a body were more limited than what is possible today. For example, I believe genetical analysis only became available around 1985 and was rather expensive and not that accessable as a method, blood samples didn't tell you as much as you would have liked in the mid-eighties, and profiling was basically still emerging as a science in the U.S. Also, cell phones were huge clunky things the size and weight of a small brick. And not everyone wanted one or owned one. So Jim doesn't have his own cell phone in this fic, and texting is something no one knows about yet. Also forget using GPS on a cell phone to locate anyone. ((Yeah, imagine how far we've come. Every cell phone today has more technology in it than the computer that sent people to the moon, at least someone once explained that to me. It's freaking amazing.)) Of course, I bet I got a lot of stuff wrong anyway!!! But I am going to these lengths because I'm stubbornly trying to ground this somewhat strange, fantastical storyline as much as possible in reality / real-life history and in the series canon, so that when this fic eventually becomes something different and unexpected, you as a Reader might just think: Oh shit. But maybe that could be possible, maybe that could happen...! That would be great. Sorry for the boring notes...!


	6. Dark Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Nathan Hemsley thinks about his work and his enigmatic employers... and visits his newest test subject.  
> OR: Plot-heavy chapter involving the introduction of another major original character and the fleshing out of other OCs. Already mentioned that the back story of this fic is f**king huge. 
> 
> WARNINGS for dark and disturbing semi-scientific themes and lacking morality (No violence as such, no active visceral non-con medical stuff, BUT very detailed descriptions of the what the bad guys are doing and what may be coming to Jim). NO FLUFF or any kind of comfort for several more chapters, so hang on to your hats tightly. Don't like? Understandable. Then please, I'm begging you, take care of yourselves and don't read. 
> 
> Also WARNINGS for me trying to sound clever about genetics. My research on the subject is very lacking and possibly completely ridiculous. I have no affiliation whatsoever with the concept of "Transhumanism" or followers of the concept and have adapted it solely to my own dark creative purposes. No infringement is intended. The characters' opinions are thier own, not mine. I do not own Gotham or any of the canon characters, unfortunately, so please continue to NOT sue me. Thanks :).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't even know what to say about the long delay. Life sucks. I'm sorry. Please be forgiving folks, hated keeping you waiting like this. My life has not been a joy ride this year, but now things are looking up for the first time in forever and I feel inspiration returning! :) Writer's block these last months was terrible, everything just... stopped working. But yesterday, I wrote down 5K words in one sitting. Maybe the worst is over.  
> Possibility of cringe-worthy Typos: High due to lack of rest.  
> Possibility of Inconsistencies: Low due to strenous overthinking.  
> This is a dark one, people. It's not good to read before bed.  
> Nevertheless: Hope you enjoy!

Nathan Hemsley didn’t consider himself an unreasonable man – he could be patient if he wanted to, well, if he respected someone enough to be patient. The day hadn’t started as planned, though, so his patience was wearing rather thin. He had a lot on his plate right now. He was stressed. Also, he was longing for his first cup of coffee – and as Margaret was missing, there wasn’t any coffee so far this morning.

Without a doubt he respected his lab assistant, although the woman also intimidated. Sometimes he wasn’t quite sure why Margaret had been assigned to him, although it seemed to make sense at the time when the Boss had explained it to him. Starting the day differently than usual was something Nathan didn’t appreciate – the disruption of meticulous plans tended to annoy him. He considered himself a scientist, first and foremost, even in his private life. Straightforward, structured, maybe even brilliant. He had been among the best in his class (Not to brag, just an observation, of course).

Unfortunately, his research interests had always drawn uncomfortable smiles at Gotham Uni. Nathan had been tired of petty disdain and unsettlingly blank looks – he had been so glad to leave. By now, he had moved up in the world - even if the world didn’t need to know about it. He was working cutting-edge, genetical research that put everything that came before it in its proper place, and he loved that about his job. Recombinant DNA research and technology, specifically, the horizontal transfer of genes in living tissue between higher organisms – that was mattered in the life of the lanky brunette. It was a fascinating subject.

The job he had had before had already been unconventional and hush hush for sure, but he had never felt as appreciated and as free to unfold his interests as he was here. Maybe he simply hadn’t enjoyed his last job because of Dr. Strange and his infuriating tendency to smirk at him through his pink glasses. In any case, Nathan was glad to be here now. Every job had its difficulties, though. His current one was a whole other class of secrecy compared to Indian Hill. That could be troublesome. 

The scientist liked knowing what he was doing and why he was doing it, following scheduled routines and logical lines of thought. He had been pleasantly surprised to have certain rights to implement new ideas directly into the current project, not necessarily having to run every detail past his new enigmatic Boss. However, that freedom went both ways. Nathan was aware of the fact that Dr. Dr. Markov did not disclose all his secrets to Nathan, the “Non-Believer”.

What Dr. Hemsley wasn’t very good at was flexibility. This came back to the point why the day hadn’t started as planned for Nathan – if he had to pinpoint when things had started going off-script, it would have been the surprising realization twenty minutes ago that he was the first to arrive in the office. Usually, Marge would have greeted him with a curt nod and a polite half-smile when he entered the door, a steaming cup of coffee, black, two sugars, already waiting for him. But today, for the first time ever – no lab assistant, no coffee, as stated. Not that he was a coffee junkie. That would be vaguely unprofessional.  

Missing explanations were also unprofessional.

Was he supposed to be okay with this unprecedented fact that his lab assistant was unavailable…? Nathan knew he should try harder to be flexible. Maybe Margaret – who insisted on being called Marge, although he wasn’t sure why, it made her name so much more mundane – had a personal life after all. The unerringly punctual woman had a sort of cold beauty, reminding him of a machine. How intriguing the concept was, that she could have a personal life that would cause her to arrive this late to work. Something must have happened – life, whatever that entailed to her – to _Margaret_ , the most unreadable and independent person Nathan had ever met.

When Marge still hadn’t arrived after 30 minutes, Nathan couldn’t contain his restlessness any longer. He stared at the whirling helixes of DNA making up his screen saver, pale fingers fidgeting. He needed to get on with his daily routines, assistant or no assistant. Well, she couldn’t expect him to wait for her, right? Sighing, Nathan pulled on his white lab coat and shucked into his white trainers he only wore in the lab. It was time to go check up on the Test Subjects.

Test Subject Nine, especially.

Nathan opened the door and stepped into the corridor leading from the offices to the holding cells. It was a long, straight corridor.  To the one side of the corridor, unassuming doors led to the few offices the Boss had supplied to the leading scientists on the project. Further down the same corridor, on the other side, several glass panes were let into the tiled wall. They acted as observation windows into the holding cells beyond, triple-thick security glass preventing sound from passing through. They were designed to be one-way, so the scientist could observe without being seen, while the Test Subjects, should they regain consciousness and be strong enough to get up, would only see their own haggard reflections.

On first glance, the holding cells seemed more reminiscent of well-equipped, highly specialized hospital rooms than actual prison cells. There was always one bed in each white room, surrounded by medical machines and glowing screens showing the vitals of the unfortunate occupants.  Two chairs and a table stood to the side of the bed for interactions with the occupant at a later point in time, on the off chance they actually survived the procedure for a change. Last, in the corner of each cell two small sinks could be seen, as well as a metal toilet bowl without a lid. Privacy wasn’t intended in those rooms, although the toilet area was partially obscured from the “window” by some of the larger medical machines.

On second glance, the observer would notice the absence of real windows to the outside of the building, the cuffs and plastic restrains attached to all four points of the beds and the very heavy-looking metal doors. The doors looked similar to those of high-security prisons – sturdy constructions with a slotted window, also metal, which was bolted from the outside. The door itself was secured again with three deadbolts as well as a key.

The doors reminded Nathan of those they had had in the sub-basements of Indian Hill. They looked fairly identical.

Maybe the same firm had supplied Indian Hill and his new employers, the self-named group of “Believers”, led by his Boss, Dr. Dr. Casimir Markov, if that was truly the man’s real name. Nathan was curious, but had decided long ago he didn’t _really_ want to know the extent of Markov’s and Strange’s affiliation with each other – if there was any affiliation at all. It wasn’t his business anyway, as long as it didn’t meddle with his work. The young scientist liked to keep out of the… _stickiness_ of politics if he could help it – it was the one thing where he was quite happy _not_ to know all the details.

Nathan’s employers apparently owned the whole building. It was a sturdy three-story building, located in the furthest reaches of the old business district of Gotham.

Like so many others in the dark City, the building was weathered and vaguely gothic in appearance: An imposing entranceway with a huge double door, painted black, swirls of wrought iron let into the aged wood. The building above was clad in small, dark brown brick and tall hooded windows. Brass door knobs glinted gold under the two heavy lanterns shining on either side of the entranceway.

Elegant golden Lettering, gone dull with age, depicted: “Montorio Shipping Company – founded 1891” above the door.

Behind the main building sprawled a few poorly- lit warehouses. They had been built right up to the edge of the water of Gotham Harbor. Nathan didn’t know if those buildings were currently in use or not.

The main building was almost a hundred years old and looked it on the outside, but it was fully functional and well renovated on the inside. They had rigged up brand new phone lines and electric wiring throughout. There wouldn’t be any complaints about power failures or glitches in the sensitive equipment the scientist needed for their research.

Ground level consisted of an expensively refurnished waiting area, a break room, a large meeting room and a few offices with their own secretaries in the front rooms – here, Dr. Markov had his office. The first and second floors seemed to be normal offices and meeting rooms. Nathan wasn’t completely sure if the company existed, independent from the scientific procedures they were running behind other doors, or if it had only ever existed to serve as an elaborate front for the true purposes of his employers. Maybe Montorio Shipping had existed, once, to be slowly overcome from the inside, the virus of the Believers eating it out until it was only a shell of its former purpose. Those were questions for the quiet hours of the night, questions Nathan didn’t want to get involved with or too worried about. All he knew is that he was never supposed to enter the building by the main entrance, but by a hidden side entrance.

The laboratories were located, as fate would have it, in the extensive basements. Nothing new there. Nathan however spent most of his time on the third floor, at least currently. Ten holding cells were placed on this level along with the offices of the scientists… and the _other_ “experts”. Another topic he didn’t want to worry about too much.

Such a pity the ten cells didn’t have nearly as many occupants as he would have liked.

Things weren’t going that well for Dr. Hemsley this morning, as in the last weeks.

It was frustrating to Nathan how many test subjects had died, not being able to handle the dosages administered during the procedure. Currently, there were two test subjects contained within the five holding cells leading off this particular corridor, Seven and Nine, and only one more subject residing in a cell leading of another corridor, Test Subject Four.

All the others: Just as dead as most of his lab rats.

Nathan was worried. Not about the deaths of the test subjects per se, of the loss of human life, or the exact details of how the bodies were disposed – those weren’t his focus point at all. He was a _scientist_ , not a moralist. His ability to detach almost completely from human emotion made him so good at his job. He had never had illusions about his deadened morality, not since working for Strange. What _did_ worry him was what the current results _meant_ for his research, what it meant for the overall goals of his employers.

What it meant if he continued to _fail_.

At least he didn’t have to deal with the disposal of the bodies. As Marge had an ominous habit of saying, “That’s taken care of, not to worry”. He supposed _she_ took care of it? The cheerful undertone Marge sometimes had saying those kinds of things could be a little perturbing to Nathan at times. He didn’t want to meet her bad side, that was for sure. There were reasons why she intimidated him and intrigued him in equal measure.

Also, he was a bit unhappy about the man she had suddenly dumped in one of the testing rooms down on the laboratory floor two nights ago. Nathan had no idea who the man was, but Marge had told him it wasn’t a test subject and if he could please just keep out of it and let her take care of him. Well… okay? That was a bit worrying, too, but he would try to forget it.

It would be considerate if Marge could take her… playthings somewhere else. The man really was a howler. Nathan had had some complaints already. He hadn’t dared to talk to Dr. Markov about it though. Nathan was trying to do some serious research here, and stood under a lot of pressure... if his lab assistant was busy having a bit of fun, not arriving to work and not helping him, then she could at least take her hobbies somewhere else, couldn’t she?

Anyway.

What the “Believers” seemed to _believe_ _in_ was something like this: Genetic splicing and gene transfer procedures weren’t procedures meddling with nature, but a continuation of nature, god-like workings they were allowed to do in Nature’s name. They thought it was something they had every right to actively bring about in humanity, even against the will of that same humanity. Possibly a warped idea of “survival of the fittest” argument, Nathan supposed.

As Nathan obviously knew, his employers weren’t satisfied with testing lab rats – these enigmatic individuals felt too _privileged_ for that. They believed they were secretly powerful enough to bring in live human subjects, and it was true: They seemed to have the chops to deal with any fallout so far. The moral standard the Believers had set for themselves was their own. It didn’t follow any of the usual patterns. To Dr. Hemsley, it was pretty clear they had aspects of a cult group.

For many of his peers, this would be utterly terrifying, working for that kind of an organization.

But Nathan had already seen a lot of bullshit under Dr. Strange, he could live with morally dark just fine. On the up side, the opportunities the Boss had given him were almost limitless. The other side of morality sure had its sweets.

Dr. Hemsley wasn’t going to lie: Yes, dammit, he _enjoyed_ the unprecedented scientific freedom he had here, as long as he wasn’t forced to join the semi-religious inner circle he knew Marge belonged to. He felt like a minor god, working on breaking human DNA to his liking, and he didn’t want to lose that feeling. It was like a drug, somehow empowering him to be more than human, too, even though he’d never inject himself with the batches he developed over the hundreds of hours he had spent hunched over a microscope or staring at DNA strains. The time he had put into developing the virus was staggering.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have many test subjects to work with right now.

As if six dead subjects hadn’t been bad enough, Test Subject Four seemed to have gone insane within the first week of testing, whereas Test Subject Seven may have been very promising in the beginning, but had fallen into a comatose state three days ago.

Dr. Markov had, understandably, been very disappointed when that happened.

It left Nathan with Test Subject Nine. In his mind, Nathan refrained from calling the occupants by their given names – there was no point in sentimentality.

Nathan’s finger tapped impatiently against the chart of Test Subject Nine, circling the “Y” next to the line: X4-HfG-2.

The header of the medical chart was printed in a gothic script: _Ego Credo_ , like every chart. And below it read, in clinical small print:

_Test Subject Nine: James W. Gordon. White Caucasian. Male. 37 years._

That’s what the man was now, whether the cop liked it or not: A Test Subject, a worthy vessel for Nathan’s scientific zeal and Markov’s uncanny darkness.

Little did he know it, but the man would no longer be completely human - that was, if the procedure _worked_ without killing him.

At least the batch containing the virus hadn’t killed him instantly, like with the first three subjects. It was progress, at least, wasn’t it? Also, as far as Nathan could tell, Test Subject Nine may be reacting very strongly to the batch, but he didn’t seem to have lost his mind _yet_ …

Nathan could be getting somewhere, at last.

Something about Nine _had_ to be special. Nathan couldn’t put his finger on why the man was special, or if it was all linked to other things the Believers were not telling him. His Boss had reacted differently to Gordon, though. Brought him in himself. Spoke to him by his first name. _Why?_ Why did Markov care about him?

Nathan felt conflicted about Markov having called the man by his first name – _James_ – that was oddly humanizing behavior of his Boss. To Nathan, he would only ever refer to the test subject as “Gordon” when he spoke to him in person, and “Nine” in his head. 

Also, the Boss’ reaction to the results of the blood work, the primary genetic analysis, had been odd. His very _off-handedness_ of made it suspect.

Yes, how could he have forgotten that.

The fact that couldn’t be a fact.

How could he, Dr. Nathan Hemsley, even for a _millisecond_ , have forgotten the impossible?

Maybe because he was missing his coffee this morning, because Margaret was missing and he wasn’t feeling especially clever right now. That could be it. But yes. The virus had been tested as _positive_ when they had brought the man in. It was marked by the “Y” on the chart.

_Positive._

Again, the question reared up: How, for god’s sake, was that even _possible_?

Surely, the scientist reasoned, it _had_ to be a glitch.

Analysis had had glitches before, even though those were very, very rare. But the alternative, that this was the _real thing_...? Impossible… so, a glitch, like Markov had implied?

But… the virus was lab-born, Nathan knew that. He was the god that had taken major steps to set it up. The virus, if it worked correctly, established a complicated latticework of extra links. It attached onto the chains of the human genome, freeing it up for adding and integrating DNA that didn’t originally belong there.

All without killing the host. An elegant trojan horse. If it worked, that is. If he could get it past the immune system.

Using the virus as a helper was the only way Nathan had found to make horizontal genetic transfer work in living tissue. And he wasn’t going to return to experimenting on the Dead, like Strange. No, this was better, working with live subjects.

They’d only started using the virus on human test subjects a few weeks ago. Before that, it had only been lab rats... decades and _decades_ of lab rats, as far as Nathan’s readings at Gotham Uni had shown. Nathan hadn’t been satisfied with that.

He had always wanted more.

He didn’t have the faintest clue how the virus, a complex biological framework _they_ _had_ _created_ , right _here_ in this very building, could have possibly seeped into the general public... how it could have _reached_ the cop’s DNA structure and attached to it, before they even brought him _in_.

The virus was the turning point of his research, the chameleon or missing link he had been searching for. It was fundamentally necessary for what came next in their genetic engineering process. (Nathan liked to called genetic engineering “genegeneering” – he thought it very clever. And it saved time.)

To have an idea of the specific points the virus could link _to_ in each individual they brought in, _the individual windows_ _to_ _horizontal_ _transfer_ _that_ _could_ _be_ _opened_ , so to speak, they always ran extensive blood work and genetic analysis on every test subject.

Then, they injected the virus, with a few extra DNA strains for good measure: That was the batch.

In a nutshell, Nathan suspected the reason why almost all the other Test Subjects had died messily was their immune system identifying the injected virus as a threat, which was of course the problem he’d been encountering in the rats. Their immune systems had reacted so strongly at first, seldom with fevers though, eventually dragging the body into death before giving in. However, some rats had survived… he had hoped humans would be similar.

No luck so far. But now.

Now, here he had Nine.

A cop. No, more than that: A homicide detective. And _this_ man seemed to be an open bank, genetically speaking. _Intriguing_ didn’t even cut what he felt about that…

No need to “smash new windows” into his DNA because they were already _there_ … unless it was really just a mistake in analysis?

But if this wasn’t a mistake… it made the case even _more_ intriguing to Nathan, apart from the general _why_ and _how_ of it all. Because then, the virus had apparently been incorporated into the man’s genetic makeup _without causing any ill effects... without him even noticing!_

He couldn’t believe the chances this could be a natural mutation in Gordon, it was too much of a perfect fit for his research. Sure, every person had miniscule, natural deviations in their DNA, everyone had a few real mutations, mostly boring ones, like the _attached ear lobes_... but _this_ was something else. The chances of this being a natural mutation in the man’s genetic makeup, _so close_ in structure and function to their lab-produced virus were so astronomically _slim_ , it would be more likely to win the lottery, _one hundred thousand times more likely_.

That Gordon’s immune system hadn’t run hot to kill the virus off, _so hot it killed the whole body in the process_... that he had led a normal life without even noticing that the windows were already _there_ … really, the scientist didn’t know what to think.

The cop’s reactions to the batch had been extreme in good and bad ways. His seemingly heightened sensitivity to sound and touch had been thrilling, and Nathan wanted _more_ , more positive scientific outcomes like that.

_Could it be that first strains of extra DNA were attaching themselves to the framework already in place?_

Unfortunately, there was the high fever and pain to worry about. Test Subject Seven had reacted similarly at first – then fallen into a coma. There was almost nothing Nathan wouldn’t do if he could prevent that from happening to Nine, as well.

It was as he’s said before: They wanted to _keep_ the man. Nathan was fiercely determined not to lose another test subject, willing to cross any line to reach that goal.

And if Nine, for some unknown reason, had the virus already fully integrated into his body, then… well.

Then, he only needed to wait out the fever before continuing with stage two.

Stage Two: Full-scale dosage of possibly compatible genetic makeup of other higher organisms.

If he ever got to stage two, that would be a true breakthrough.

Nevertheless, he attempted to tamper his high hopes for Nine as he walked down the corridor towards the appropriate window. There was still so much that could go wrong.

And… well… it _could_ all just be a mistake. A glitch in analysis.

_Very unlikely, but then, all explanations he could think of were rather unlikely right now…??_

After all the failures before, maybe he needed to accept that there simply wasn’t a person who could survive the procedure. He could, in his need to succeed, have amped the dosage of the virus far too high for it to work. Dr. Markov could be wrong, could have been wrong all along – Nathan maybe shouldn’t have listened to his words, years ago, when fate drew Markov and Hemsley together the first time on the very day of Nathan’s graduation ceremony, his Doctorate of Genetics so newly minted he had felt weird being addressed as such.

Nathan had considered it several times during the past weeks, that Markov wasn’t just a little, but _completely_ insane. Dr. Strange had been unhinged, too – maybe all scientific geniuses were, in their own way? Nathan found himself thinking that Dr. Hemsley should seriously consider what this would mean for his own sanity, if _that_ hypothesis were true...

He knew there were many things the cult left him in the dark about. He had accepted that he did not get insight into _how_ or _why_ certain people were chosen to be Test Subjects – _classified information_ , the Boss had told him. Maybe Dr. Markov did hold a faint grudge that Nathan hadn’t opted in to his belief system as well as taking the job?

So far though, it hadn’t been too much of an issue… but why had they chosen _Nine_? Had Markov known about the virus in the man, just waiting to be activated?  

It nagged at him, how on earth Nine could even be this special in the first place!

Sighing tersely, Nathan turned to stare through the window into the holding cell. His dark, almost black eyes roamed over his newest subject of interest.

He really wanted to uncover the secret behind the “Y” in Gordon’s charts. Maybe there was an explanation for this, something he hadn’t considered yet. He would yet again try and be… _flexible_.

The man lay on his side, mostly curled in upon himself in his white hospital gown, alive but apparently still feverish and delirious, even in sleep.

Nathan watched the beads of sweat drip down the test subject’s forehead, his face frozen in an expression of pain and confusion. The cop had tried to pretend otherwise, trying to gain information and save himself when they had interviewed him yesterday, but he had been _so_ _obviously_ unable to flee or fight that Nathan had allowed the metal bar and most of the restraints to be removed after they had sedated him again. Maybe he was growing a little soft, but how would the helpless man even flee, if he had the strength? It was alright to concede this much comfort. After all, he would never leave this building again, if Nathan had any say in it.

Nine lay cuffed to the bedstead only by his left foot, and attached to all the lowly beeping machines monitoring his uneasy vitals. Apart from those restraints, he was able to move around in the bed as he liked. The former cop looked almost… _fragile_ , shivering with fever and curled in on himself so very tightly, the scientist mused to himself. His outstretched left leg strained against the remaining cuff, beads of blood seeping slowly into the white sheets.

 _It_ _would_ _be_ _nice_ _to_ _see_ _this_ _one_ _live_ , Nathan mused yet again. He did wish they could have chosen someone else than a _detective_ though, dammit. Quite a risky move. Especially as this guy was almost famous. But then, the Believers had more chops than Indian Hill had ever had.

Nathan reached to the side and flicked on the intercom, set to one-way, so he could catch the words he could see the man mumbling into his sweat-soaked pillow. Detached but focused, the scientist watched as Gordon panted and squirmed in pain in his hospital bed. Whatever he was mumbling out, it was so faint Nathan had to turn the intercom up to the highest setting to even catch it.

The man gave a pained groan, eyelids fluttering unsteadily as he grabbed handfuls of the sheet covering half his body. Nathan leaned in closer to the intercom, straining to hear.

“ _Nngh_ … no, _get_ _away_ _from_ _me_... Harv… Har- _H-help_ …,” the man gasped out brokenly between his pants, seemingly caught in a fever dream.

He spasmed suddenly, back arching to an unnatural extent as he cried out in pain.

Then Nathan heard him mutter, louder now than before: “Ugh… no. _No_ _closer! Harvey, where are you?!_ ”

The scientist leaned back and huffed thoughtfully, flicking the intercom off.

Funny thing, fever. It brought out the best and the worst in you – the deepest darkest secrets.

He hoped whoever this “Harvey” was, he wasn’t also a detective.

 _Maybe_ _just_ _a_ _friend_ , Nathan told himself.

_What kind of friends did infamous Homicide Detectives even have though?_

Probably just a lonely barman, then.

Not much of a threat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there...  
> Things will get better, I promise. But first, we must descend into darkness some more... Noir is what I want to do here. 
> 
> I live for comments and kudos. Every single one is deeply appreciated and can totally make my day. So, if you like this fic, please show some love. Next chapter coming early September!


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